Boy on Hold

by J D Spero

  “Hen, let’s talk.” Mom used her no-nonsense voice. Her wide eyes waited for something.

  Hen’s stomach went fuzzy. He didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t know what she wanted him to say. The kitchen warmed like an oven. Sleep tugged at him.

  Yawn.

  A glass of apple juice appeared before him.

  “Why don’t you tell me, Hen? About the beads?”

  Hen’s heart picked up and he wished Bernie had stayed. He sipped his juice, coating his upper lip with stickiness.

  Mom was extra patient. She undid her hair clip and dark curls fell, making shadows on her face. Everyone thought she was beautiful. Hen did, too. But right now, with her stern face, shadows made her look mean. She waited, but the words were scared right out of Hen.

  Mom’s smile was tired. “It’s me, sweetie. You can tell your mom anything.”

  He coughed a little. “I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t want to tell me?”

  Hen shook his head.

  “Why? Why don’t you want to tell me?”

  Hen stared at her. She had all kinds of feelings in her eyes. Anger and fear and hope and sadness. Hen could feel all of them too.

  “Are you afraid you’re going to get in trouble?”

  After a beat, Hen nodded.

  “If you tell me the truth, you won’t get in trouble. Understand?”

  Hen just stared.

  Mom stared back, serious-like. “The truth is always better than a lie, even if you think that lie will save you from getting in trouble. Always tell the truth.”

  His eyes stung. “I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Tell me. Tell me the truth, Hen. I promise you won’t get in trouble if you tell me the truth.”

  Hen looked at his hand that Clapp had held. He rubbed the spot on his wrist where the beads had been. How smooth they were. How easily they slipped off his hand. And now, they were in Clapp’s pocket.

  That Thanksgiving memory didn’t let up—Tyler’s body pinned by Clapp’s Popeye arm. Tyler’s face twisted, his eyes moving over Hen as if he didn’t see him. Or didn’t want him anymore.

  Tears sprang to his eyes. “I gave it to Tyler.”

  “What? You gave it to Tyler? What-what did you give him?” Mom took Hen’s hand. Her cool touch took away Clapp’s heat.

  “The beads.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That night. Before.”

  “No. You left them at Miss Sally’s. Remember? We were looking for them before we left that day. You couldn’t find them and I said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get them another time.’ Remember?” A laugh fluttered out, but her cheeks went pink.

  Hen stared, confused. Did she not hear him? “But I did. I found them. Before we left.”

  “No, no.” Her voice cracked. She fanned her hands as if to catch it.

  “Yes, I did. I wanted to show you. But you were talking to Miss Sally so I put them in my pocket. When we got home, I went upstairs and gave them to Tyler. He put it on. He was wearing it.”

  For a moment, no one talked. Mom looked like something hurt inside. “He was wearing it?”

  “The beaded bracelet. He was wearing it that night. That night when Miss Sally—”

  “No, no.” She paced the kitchen, smoothing her hair back into its clip. “It can’t be that bracelet. Bernie says that he and Officer Clapp found it—”

  “At Miss Sally’s. After.”

  Mom shook her head. Like she didn’t want to hear. A blunt, bitter laugh. “That can’t be. How would it end up back at Miss Sally’s? How—?” She froze. She gazed out the window at the giant willow tree.

  She had finally heard him. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Oh, no. Oh, please no.”

  She rushed to Hen and wrapped her arms around him. She held him a long time. When she straightened, tears had wet her whole face.

  “Hen, listen to me. This is important. Okay?” She gripped his shoulders. Her low voice cracked with her crying. “If Officer Clapp asks you about that bracelet again, you have to tell him that you lost it that day at Miss Sally’s. And you couldn’t find it. You didn’t find it. Okay?” She shook him a little. “You lost it at Miss Sally’s. You did not find it. You did not see that bracelet again until Bernie brought it to you later. You hear me?”

  Hen didn’t say anything. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. Fear made everything stiff.

  She kept squeezing his shoulders like juice would come out. “Promise me you will tell Officer Clapp you never found the bracelet. It never touched Tyler’s wrist. Okay? You need to promise me. Hen? Do you understand?”

  A big feeling built inside him. “But—”

  “What? But what?” Her voice was harsh. Her hands trembled. She let go of him and shivered. Wiped tears from her cheeks. Softer now, “But what, sweetie?”

  “But that’s not the truth.”

  Hen couldn’t sleep. That big feeling wouldn’t quit. Mom’s words pinged around in his mind: Always tell the truth.

  She insisted he tell her the truth. Promised he wouldn’t get in trouble. She was right. He didn’t get in trouble.

  But then, it got confusing. She acted weird. He’d never seen her so jittery. Then, she made him promise to lie.

  Promise me you will tell Officer Clapp you never found the bracelet. It never touched Tyler’s wrist.

  His stomach got all twisty. Why did she want him to lie? Just because Tyler wore the bracelet that night didn’t mean he did anything wrong.

  Or did it?

  He pictured Tyler wearing it. He’d given it to him that night.

  Tyler wore it that night. It was found in Miss Sally’s house. But Tyler wasn’t there, Derek was. Maybe Tyler gave Derek the bracelet.

  Why would he do that?

  Maybe Derek took it from him. That’s the kind of icky thing Derek would do. For fun. Take things from other people and laugh about it, especially if it came from Hen. That must have been it. Derek stole the bracelet and had it that night when he went into Miss Sally’s house and did a very bad thing.

  Was Tyler there too?

  No. No. No.

  Maybe Derek left it there on purpose to get Tyler in trouble. Make it seem like Tyler did that very bad thing, not him. But Tyler didn’t have anything against Miss Sally. Hen knew that for sure. She annoyed him sometimes, but he didn’t have any reason to do a very bad thing. Not like Derek.

  Derek had all the reasons to do a very bad thing. That day she made them nachos, Miss Sally had warned them there would be consequences. Leon had been angry. Derek had been angry. Mad as heck.

  Still, something didn’t sit right in Hen’s belly. He wished he’d never made that beaded bracelet in school. He wished it never existed. Hen tossed and turned so much that night, it was like a giant eggbeater had gotten to his covers.

  Maybe Bernie could help.

  The next morning, Bernie walked Hen to the bus stop. It was the last day of school before Christmas break.

  Hen tugged on Bernie’s hand until he looked at him. He took a big breath and asked his big question.

  “What is truth?”

  “Whoa. What is truth?” An awkward laugh. “That’s kinda deep.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Like, what does the word ‘truth’ mean?”

  “Yeah.” By the time they reached the corner, it had started to snow.

  “I guess it’s what’s real. Like, facts.”

  Hen held out his mitten to catch the snow. A perfect snowflake landed. He could see its lacy design. “Like, what you know is real?”

  Bernie sniffed hard. He didn’t wear a hat or gloves. “Well, it’s like this. It’s snowing right now. That’s a fact. I know it. You know it. We see it and feel it and smell it. It’s real and true.”

  “Truth.”

  “Right.” Bernie rocked back on his heels, smiling outside and in.

  More snowflakes fell on Hen’s mitten. So many that he couldn’t see any la
cy designs. Just a clump of snow.

  “What about Santa?”

  Bernie’s smile disappeared. “What about him?”

  “Is he real?”

  “Well, now, Hen. Of course he is.” Bernie eyed the empty street.

  “But I’ve never seen him.”

  Bernie sucked the inside of his cheek. “Well, it’s like this. Sometimes truth is tricky. Sometimes truth is what we believe is real. Even if we don’t see it or feel it or smell it.”

  “What if some people don’t believe?”

  Bernie grinned. “Maybe they’re lyin’ to themselves.”

  Hen let the clump of snow fall from his mitten. It landed by his boot, mixing with the fresh snow. He couldn’t see where the clump began and ended.

  “What about God?”

  After a pause, Bernie cupped Hen’s shoulder, looked him right in the eye. “Now, son. God is definitely real. That’s the truth.”

  He waited until Hen nodded before straightening. Snow had collected on his thin hair. The tops of his ears were bright pink from the cold.

  The bus rumbled in the distance.

  “So, truth is what we know is real, but also what we believe is real?” Hen wanted to be sure.

  Bernie sighed. A cloud cone shot from his mouth. “I know the bus is coming. And it’s about time ‘cause I’m about freezin’ out here. That’s the truth.”

  Hen’s seat on the bus, the one he shared with Murphy, seemed bigger than usual. And quiet. Like it was protected somehow. A bubble.

  “Do you know what truth is?” Hen asked him.

  Murphy giggled. “What do you mean?”

  “Like, truth. What’s true and what isn’t.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Murphy made a face.

  “Like, Santa and God and stuff.”

  “What? Santa and God and stuff? You don’t make any sense.”

  Hen bounced through some bumps in the road. He was a little afraid to ask, but wanted to know. “You don’t believe in God?”

  “‘Course I do, you boob.” Murphy’s cheeks got red, embarrassed-like. “Santa’s another story.”

  “You don’t believe in Santa?”

  “No. Only boobs believe in Santa.” He turned away, breaking the bubble.

  “Maybe you’re just lyin’ to yourself,” Hen said, but Murphy didn’t hear.

  Hen spent the rest of the ride working it around in his mind. Truth. It should’ve been clear, but it wasn’t. Hooks and twists made it tricky, like Bernie said.

  Was Bernie right?

  Was Murphy?

  If Hen had to take sides, he’d take Bernie’s. And he’d said: Sometimes truth is what we believe is real.

  So, truth wasn’t only what he knew, but what he believed.

  Did Hen know Tyler did something bad at Miss Sally’s that night?

  No.

  Did Hen believe Tyler did anything bad at Miss Sally’s that night?

  Absolutely not.

  So…

  Truth: Tyler didn’t do anything bad at Miss Sally’s that night.

  He wasn’t even there. Derek was. Alone. Derek swiped the bracelet from Tyler because he’s a jerk. And he left it at Miss Sally’s when he did that bad thing.

  Truth.

  Now Hen had to make everyone believe what he believed, which wouldn’t be easy. What could he do?

  He thought so hard his brain ached.

  By the time he got to school, he had an idea.

  A holiday party in his classroom. Teacher instructed them to make marshmallow ornaments for the tree. Hen’s plan didn’t involve marshmallows.

  “Do we have anymore pipe cleaners?” he asked. “And beads?”

  Teacher praised him for his originality and set him up with a green pipe cleaner—same color as before—and leftover beads from their project earlier that year.

  His favorite colors were still there. He could do the same pattern.

  Red, dark blue, yellow, and green.

  Red bead. The old barn by the lake.

  Dark blue. Tyler’s favorite jeans.

  Yellow. Golden, fall leaves.

  Green. The spindly branches of Miss Sally’s willow tree.

  And repeat. Red, dark blue, yellow, and green.

  Thread enough to make a bracelet.

  Barn, jeans, leaves, willow tree.

  Hen smiled as he worked. This would fix things. Make everything better.

  “Think of someone special you’d like to give these to,” his teacher had said. She echoed the same today. “Giving gifts is a way to tell someone you care about them.”

  Barn, jeans, leaves, willow tree.

  Just as he had before, Hen wrapped the wire in a circle wide enough for Tyler’s wrist, folding over the extra pipe cleaner.

  Christmas 1991

  Forget Silent Night. No tear-jerker, downer carols allowed. Marcella was all about Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.

  She had one Christmas wish and Justice Bowman made it true. He’d granted special permission for a rare twenty-four-hour pass for Tyler to spend the holiday at home.

  Bernie put up a Charlie Brown tree, which Hen saved with stringed popcorn and candy canes. Aside from no downer carols, another rule applied: No talk of Tyler’s pending trial. Not a word. No mention of Derek, Leon, or Tripp. Especially Tripp. Marcella was set on pretending Tyler was on a break from college or the Marines or somewhere. And she sent Bernie to pick up Tyler from county jail so she could hold onto that fantasy.

  At Hen’s insistence, A Chipmunk’s Christmas crooned through the house when Tyler came in. It was like a movie star had arrived. Hen squealed and hopped around like a bunny. Tyler allowed Marcella a long hug—an unexpected gift. His skin held an acidic, medicinal smell, as if he’d just stepped off an airplane. He wore the same ratty Baja hoodie, and Marcella fought an urge to tear it off him and boil it clean. It did fill him out a little, though. She bit back tears, seeing how thin he’d become.

  Bernie came in quietly behind Tyler carrying a bouquet of white flowers—daisies, carnations, and stephanotis. Marcella regarded them askance.

  “These are from Tyler,” Bernie said.

  She eyed her son. “You got me flowers?”

  He nodded to Bernie. “I had a little help.”

  “It was his idea.” Bernie set the flowers on the mantle. “I helped fund it, is all.”

  Marcella’s smile was bursting. This holiday was already the best ever.

  When they sat for dinner at the kitchen table, filling all four chairs, it felt like a real family. Bernie, sitting across from her, belonged. It made sense, what Sally had hoped for them. She watched them eat, too happy for food. Tyler helped himself to seconds, then thirds of Marcella’s spiced roast chicken, homemade mashed potatoes, and wilted spinach. Hen talked about his holiday party at school.

  “We made crafts. Most of my class made marshmallow ornaments but I made something else. And then we ate popcorn and watched Rudolph!”

  “My favorite.” Tyler grinned at his little brother. All that ugliness from Thanksgiving at the station done and gone, thank goodness.

  Chocolate cream pie—Tyler’s favorite—for dessert. As she loaded the dishwasher, the three men in her life scarfed down the pie in its entirety.

  If she could freeze time right here on Christmas Eve, she would.

  Hen awoke before the sun. Had Santa come?

  But quiet filled the house. And Hen was cozy under his comforter. The windows had white icing in the corners. The room was snuggly, with a soft rumble of Tyler’s snoring across the room. Maybe in a few…

  When he next opened his eyes, it was bright and sunny and the window icing had melted. Hen bounded off his bed. Christmas! And it wasn’t too early to get up.

  “Tyler!”

  Tyler looked like a little boy as he slept. Hen smacked a kiss on his forehead, which wrinkled in protest. Hen giggled. Tyler rolled over with a sleepy mumble. His hair was all tangly in the back. Hen twirled it with his fin
ger.

  How could Tyler be in so much trouble? Maybe if they pretended hard enough, he wouldn’t be. And since he was home, it would be easy to do. That was it. Hen would pretend Tyler right out of trouble.

  Hen wanted to wait for Tyler to wake up, but his feet were getting cold. He pulled on his favorite fleece socks. The coffee maker gurgled downstairs. Mom was up! Christmas could start!

  He slid down the stairs, closing his eyes tight as he passed by the tree where presents waited for him.

  Mom made coffee in her bathrobe. Bernie was there too, already fully dressed at the table.

  “Good morning, sweetie!” Marcella sang, gliding over for a hug. “I hope you didn’t peek under the tree.”

  Hen shook his head, grinning. He couldn’t help it. It was Christmas!

  “I’m making you some hot cocoa. Why don’t you have your cereal before Tyler gets up?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Have a little. When we’re excited, we don’t feel hungry when we really are. Come and sit with Bernie.”

  Mom was right. As soon as he tasted his Cinnamon Toast Crunch, his belly asked for more. He ate the whole bowl, and then dove his spoon into his hot cocoa. It even had whipped cream on top. Mom and Bernie smiled at him over steaming mugs.

  “Think you were on the naughty or nice list this year?” Bernie said.

  Hen tightened his eyebrows. He never did find Louis. What if he were in one of those leaf piles that got scooped up and mixed into compost? Oh, gosh. That wasn’t nice. And then, he’d seen what had happened at Miss Sally’s. That wasn’t nice at all. And that yucky thing at Thanksgiving with Tyler wasn’t nice, either. He hoped to make up for it today. His lips trembled as worry crept into his heart.

  Bernie backtracked. “No, I didn’t mean. No, Hen. You’re nice. Always a nice boy.”

  “Oh, Hen,” Mom said. “Bernie was just playing. Of course, Santa knows you’re a good boy.”

  Still, Hen’s hot cocoa wasn’t that tasty anymore. Even with the whipped cream.

  Mom cleaned up after breakfast while Bernie started a fire in the fireplace. Hen had enough of polite waiting. He played Christmas with the Chipmunks on the stereo. That would wake up Tyler, for sure.