The Whispers

by Greg Howard

  “Riley!”

  Hearing my name being called out from the tree line confuses me. It doesn’t sound like the Whispers, and now I know they aren’t real anyway. But I recognize the voice the second time it calls out to me.

  I look back to the tree line. Dylan runs toward me, two backpacks over his shoulder and his shotgun hanging at his side. I rest my chin on Tucker’s head and stare at Mama’s name carved in the headstone. She’s never coming back. Because of me.

  “Riley?” The drum of Dylan’s footsteps stops a few feet away from me. “Are you okay? I’ve been looking for you since yesterday. Your daddy too. I went and told him that I couldn’t find you. He’s worried sick. I was hoping you’d hear the shots I fired.”

  I look back at him. I see now that he’s carrying my Black Panther backpack as well as his own. He’s staring at Tucker with widened eyes.

  “He’s dead,” I say, through a sob that catches in my throat. I swallow it back. “She’s dead too.” I nod to Mama’s headstone. “I killed her.”

  Dylan drops the backpacks, lays the shotgun on the ground, and runs over to me. He squats down in front of me like an adult would.

  “I’m so sorry, Riley.” He pets Tucker’s head and his eyes mist over instantly. Soon tears flow out of his eyes as easily as they do mine. Suddenly Dylan seems more a boy like me than an adult or a superhero. He glances up at Mama’s headstone and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “But you didn’t kill her. Why would you say something like that?” His voice fades away and cracks at the end.

  There was a time when I would have been too embarrassed or ashamed to tell Dylan about my other condition. But I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything anymore.

  “Sister Grimes said so,” I say, steadying my voice.

  “What the heck are you talking about?” His superhero voice is back but the tears still slip out.

  I wipe my eyes with the smelly sleeve of Mordecai’s shirt. “Sister Grimes said it would kill Mama if she found out I was funny. And then Mama caught me kissing Kenny from Kentucky in Daddy’s work shed. She got sick soon after that, and then she did die, just like Sister Grimes said she would.”

  Dylan has a soft look in his wet eyes. He doesn’t respond to my confession the way I thought he would. He doesn’t seem shocked or grossed out by it. He doesn’t call me a pervert or run away from me or punch me in the face. He actually does something so unexpected that it makes me start crying all over again. He sits beside me, leaning his back on Mama’s headstone. Gently pressing my head to his chest, he pulls me close to him, wrapping his superhero arms tight around me, and we just sit there while I cry out what’s left of my soul. Dylan holding me. Me holding Tucker. And Mama holding us all.

  A long time passes before Dylan says anything, which is fine with me, because sitting there with my head resting on his chest and his arms wrapped around me is hands-down the most loved I’ve felt since Mama disappeared. Since Mama died. Finally my sobs ease up and the only sounds I hear now are the beat of Dylan’s heart in one ear and the birds waking up in the other.

  “She just died, Riley,” Dylan says in a breathy whisper on my ear.

  Normally my internal Charlie Brown teacher translator would kick in whenever someone said something like that, but it isn’t working anymore. I hear the words loud and clear. She just died.

  “And it wasn’t because she saw you kissing a boy. She was real sick. She had cancer. She went for chemo at the Upton Hospital for months, but it just didn’t work. And that’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It just is. And it’s okay to cry because it sucks. My mama died the same way when I was real little.”

  And then the King of the Redneck Superheroes does something that warms me from head to toe. He kisses me right on the top of my head. Just like Daddy did when he used to love me.

  “Come on, I’ll take you home, and you can come back with your daddy to get Tucker.” Dylan moves his hand from my chest, and when he does, something makes a crinkling sound in Mordecai’s shirt. I look down and slip my hand into the chest pocket.

  “Where’d that shirt come from?” Dylan asks. “It reeks.”

  “Mordecai Mathews,” I say as I pull out the Ziploc bag that I’d dropped in the clearing.

  “Mordie?” Dylan says, surprised and then alarmed. “Did he hurt you?”

  I want to say, No. The hobgoblin is actually a nice human person and I think he was falsely accused because Mama believed him and I do too and it’s terrible the way everyone treats him.

  But I don’t. I can’t stop staring at the contents of the Ziploc bag, the Magic Markered word PRIVATE only slightly blocking my view of Grandpa’s Swiss Army knife and Mama’s wedding ring.

  25

  THE WORST BROTHER IN THE HISTORY OF BROTHERS?

  Later that day, we all stand quietly under the shade of the old oak tree in the backyard—me, Daddy, Grandpa, Grandma, and Danny. I was so tired when I got home this morning that after I took a shower, I collapsed on my bed and was out for most of the day. I didn’t pee on the bed, though. I think I’ve been cured of my condition. Daddy finally came in and woke me up because it was time. I called Gary’s mom and invited him and Carl, but they didn’t show. I think I totally ruined my friendship with Gary.

  I guess most dog person funerals aren’t normally well attended, because this is nothing like Mama’s at the North Creek Church of God. That day the church was packed to the gills with people and flowers. Every seat was taken and people stood in the back and all along the side aisles. I think all of Buckingham and Upton came out to pay their respects. Gary and Carl were there with their mama and daddy, Mr. and Mrs. Killen, too. Everybody from church came, just like it was Easter Sunday morning and not just a regular Sunday. Some of my teachers from school and Miss Betty came, Mama’s beauty pageant friends, Miss Sandy, and some of the nurses from the Upton Hospital Cancer Treatment Center. Poor families Mama had helped along the way showed up too, and families of prisoners she visited and became friends with. Even Dylan Mathews and his father came and stood in the very back of the church like a couple of statues.

  I’d never seen so many flowers in one place at one time either. You couldn’t even see the altars for all of the colorful arrangements. A lot of red roses. Everyone knew Mama loved red roses. The church choir sang Mama’s favorite hymn, “It Is Well with My Soul,” and then the preacher talked about all of Mama’s Christian virtues, her charity work with the indigent and the incarcerated, her uncommon beauty both inside and out, and how only Jesus knew why he needed to take her home to glory at such a young age, with so much life in front of her and leaving two young boys without a mama and a young man without the love of his life. Ours was not to ask why, he’d said, but to trust in the Lord. But I’ve always had a problem not asking why. It’s like my favorite question ever. Maybe that’s why God doesn’t like to listen to my prayers. Because I ask Him why—like a lot.

  I remember sitting on the very front pew just a few feet from the casket, between Daddy and Grandma, being suffocated by their grief. Grandma sobbing loudly while squeezing my right hand so tight I thought she might break it off, and Daddy’s whole body drawn in on itself, weeping silently into his hands and shaking all over. It was awful. Especially when Grandma started wailing like a dying animal when they lowered Mama’s casket into the ground in the graveyard behind the church. I didn’t cry that day because there wasn’t any room left for my tears. I just kept looking back and forth from Grandma to Daddy and holding Mama’s ring tight in my left hand, tucked deep inside my suit coat pocket. I knew it was too late to put it back in the casket with her and I knew I could never tell anyone I took it the day before, during the wake at our house. That’s what really happened. And I guess that’s when my head and my heart got together and decided I couldn’t take any more of all the crying, screaming, and wailing. So they told me a different story. A story that wouldn’t be
so terrible as all that. A story with hope. But I don’t think my head and my heart meant any harm. They were just looking out for me, so I forgive them.

  Daddy slings the last of the loose dirt on Tucker’s grave and pats it down gently with the back of the shovel. We’re all silent, and I wonder if somebody should say something. Or sing. If Mama were here, she’d sing a hymn, but none of us can sing as good as her. Besides, I don’t know any dog person hymns. I’m sure they have them because people say all dogs go to heaven. I think dogs are automatic Christians from the day they’re born until the day they die, with a one-way ticket straight to heaven. No dumb rules like the ones they teach at the North Creek Church of God, because dogs don’t know how to sin. All they know how to do is love. They forgive and forget easily, they don’t hold grudges, and they lie down and take a nap whenever they’re tired. We should all be more like dogs. I know I’ll never be as great as Tucker, but I’m gonna try to live by his example. I might even just lie right down on the floor in Mrs. Turner’s class and take a nap if I get tired. Then again, I’m afraid she might go all DC Fixer Cassandra Bailey on my butt.

  Grandpa has his arm around Grandma and they’re both smiling through tears. Danny hangs his head, so I can’t tell if he’s crying or not. Me, I don’t have any tears left in me. I’m all cried out. I feel kind of numb all over, the way I did at Mama’s funeral four months ago.

  Daddy has a sad look on his face, but when he’s done shoveling, he comes over, stands by me, and puts his arm around my shoulders. He was so glad to see me when Dylan brought me home this morning that I thought he was going to cry. He didn’t even yell at me for lying to him about staying over at Gary’s house. Just grabbed me and hugged me the way he used to before Mama died. It was weird, and nice, and familiar all at the same time.

  He looks down at me, his eyes softer than I’ve seen them in a long, long time. “You want to say anything, son?”

  Son. He hasn’t called me that in like forever.

  I take a step forward and stand at the foot of Tucker’s grave. Daddy made him a wooden cross and carved his name on it. We buried him beside Can’t and If, which makes sense because I don’t think Tucker would have even known those two words if he spoke human. He could do anything and never made excuses.

  I open my mouth to speak, but stop when I spot two familiar figures coming around the side of the house. They walk over to us slowly, real respectful-like, and stand beside Danny. Gary nods at me and Carl hangs his head like he’s praying. I give Gary a little smile, but not too much because I don’t want to scare him off before I have a chance to apologize to him. I nod back, silently thanking him for coming.

  Clearing my throat, I start again. “Just like Mama, Tucker taught me a lot of stuff. He didn’t worry about what happened yesterday or what might happen tomorrow; he just made the best of right now and he wasn’t afraid to face it head-on. And he always saw the good in people, no matter what other people said about them.” I look over at Gary. “He never let his friends down either and he was never mean to them. He loved everyone unconditionally. Like Mama did. I need to be more like Tucker. And Mama.”

  I step back. I know it was short and Tucker deserves better, but I did the best I could. I think he knows that.

  Gary sort of smiles at me. Danny picks up a handful of dirt and tosses it on top of the grave. I finally see his eyes. They’re wet and he sniffles a little. Gary and Carl do the same thing Danny did, picking up some loose dirt and throwing it on the grave. I do too.

  Grandpa says a closing prayer but cuts it short when he starts getting choked up. I’m still not sure God is listening, though. I want to believe He is. I’d like to think He’s taking care of Mama and Tucker up in heaven. Giving them the tour, showing them the ropes, and not getting too mad at Tucker when he poops on the streets of gold. Tucker hates leaving a mess.

  After the Amens, Daddy squeezes my shoulder and goes to put the shovel back in the shed. I walk over to Gary.

  “Hey,” I say. Lame.

  “’Sup,” Gary says back.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say. Lame times two.

  He just nods and looks down. Carl stares up at me with a hard look on his face. I guess he didn’t like how I treated his big brother any more than I did.

  “Look, dude,” I say. “I’m really, really, really sorry for those things I said in the woods.”

  Gary looks up. “Me too.”

  I smile at him. “And thanks.”

  “For what?” he says, scrunching up his face at me.

  “For helping me find her,” I say.

  Gary shrugs. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I know you didn’t believe in the Whispers or that we could find Mama,” I say. “But you went along with it anyway. For me. So thanks.”

  Gary stares at me for a long moment and then does something I’m not expecting. He grabs me and hugs me. A big, hard hug. It’s awkward and nice all at the same time.

  “It’s all good, dawg,” he says with that huge smile of his. “See you on the bus.”

  I walk Gary and Carl to the dirt road that runs in front of our house and they head back home. An old pickup truck stirs up dust and dirt as it rambles in my direction. A hand sticks out of the window and waves at Gary and Carl as it passes them. They wave back. When the truck reaches me, it stops. It’s one of those old-timey blue Fords with lots of curves and dents and places to stand on the side. Dylan is behind the steering wheel in a plain white T-shirt and his Peterbilt ball cap, looking like an adult again. I know he’s about a year shy of being legally old enough to drive with a learner’s permit because he’s the same age as Danny. But as long as he sticks to the back roads of Buckingham County, nobody around here cares about all them city rules.

  I walk over to the truck and he smiles at me through the rolled-downed window as he kills the rumbling engine. It coughs and hacks and finally sputters off.

  “Hey,” I say. Lame the sequel.

  “Hey, Riley,” he says.

  His face is looking a little better, but the damage is still visible. I wonder if the bruises his daddy gave him will ever go away or if they’ll be a part of Dylan forever.

  “You all right?”

  I nod real fast. I don’t know why.

  “That’s cool,” he says.

  Dylan Mathews said I was cool. Sort of.

  “We just buried Tucker,” I say, like we’re talking about the weather or something. “Grandma made his favorite. Angel food cake. Want some?”

  I hold my breath. I hope he doesn’t think I meant like a date or anything. I know Dylan’s too old for me. And he probably wants to kiss girls instead of boys. I can’t understand why, but I’ve never kissed a girl, so who am I to judge?

  Dylan rests his wrist on top of the steering wheel, peers straight ahead, and then checks his rearview mirror before turning his gaze back on me.

  “Nah,” he says. “I gotta get going.”

  He must see the disappointment on my face.

  “Thanks, though,” he says with a smile. “Angel food cake is my favorite, too.”

  I stand on my tiptoes and peek inside the cab of the truck like a nosy gossip would do. Dylan’s backpack is in there on the seat. So is a large duffel bag.

  “Where you going?”

  Eyes back to the front windshield. “Up the road a bit to stay with my aunt for a while.”

  Eyes back to me. It’s like he knew that news would disappoint me, so he didn’t want to look at me when he said it.

  “I won’t be on the bus,” he says. “But I’ll still see you at school.”

  A flood of relief relaxes me again. I hear my name being yelled a ways behind me. I turn and see that it’s my brother standing by the side of the house.

  “Grandma said come on, the cake’s ready,” Danny hollers. He doesn’t have any manners.

  Dylan waves
at Danny and Danny waves back. I guess they knew each other in another life—before Dylan was held back a grade and before Danny became a horrible high school person.

  “Go eat your cake and have some for me,” Dylan says like an adult as he starts up the engine again. “And say goodbye to Tucker for me.”

  Before he leaves, he reaches out the window and hands me a small slip of paper. I take it, confused. I’m sure it’s not a love note or anything, though.

  I unfold it real quick and read the three words Dylan wrote.

  “Look it up,” he says, smiling and with a little wave as he slowly pulls away.

  I wave back, watching his truck until it gets all the way to the end of the dirt road, turning right and disappearing out of sight. I feel a little embarrassed for staring at Dylan’s truck so long when I turn around and find Danny walking up to me. I stuff the slip of paper down into my pocket.

  “Come on,” he says with that usual Danny edge to his voice. “Everybody’s waitin’ for you and I want some cake.”

  I huff as I pass him, a little ticked that he cut short my visit with Dylan.

  “Hey, wait,” he says, touching my shoulder.

  I stop and turn to face him. “What?” It comes out sounding just like a regular question. I don’t do rude voice as well as Danny does. It must just come naturally to him.

  He pulls something out of the back pocket of his jeans. “I wanted to give this to you.”