I looked around the room at his team pictures on the wall, his trophies on the dresser, and the framed photo of Matt helping Joel hold a bat with Joel wearing a Chicago Cubs jersey.
Matt scrunched his eyes and then released and opened them.
“What’s she doing in here?”
“She might as well stay,” Mom said.
“Well then, why don’t we just bring in the whole family for one big therapy session,” Matt scoffed.
“I would if Dad weren’t driving that grandfather clock to Cleveland today.”
“It works? How about that! They get their timepiece. Or is it a clock?” he asked, mimicking Dad’s instructional tone. “Just in time to count down to a new year.” Matt shook his head in disbelief. “Never thought Dad would get that old thing working.”
Mom took his face in her hands, turning it toward her.
“Back to you.”
“Mom, I’m not going to do it again.”
“I remember you saying that two months ago. After a certain silo episode.”
“Yeah, but this time …”
“Yes. This time things are going to be different.” Mom’s voice took on a steely edge. “I’ll take you to school if I have to. And you won’t be going anywhere at night unless I drive you, and then I’ll wait and take you back. Otherwise, you’re at home. And while you’re at home, you’re going to start working on those grades.”
Matt moaned.
“Matt, you’ve always been a good student. Cs and Ds are below you. If you’re going to college …”
“I’m not.”
“Well, whatever you do, you’ll need better grades than that.”
As soon as Dad came home that afternoon, I went downstairs to read while Matt watched his Buckeyes play Stanford in the Rose Bowl. The basement was dark except for the overhead bulbs focusing on Dad’s workspace, one cozy circle of light. Though the winds howled and the snow was flying sideways, inside we were warm and sheltered.
The background ticking of clocks made the room sound active. No wonder Dad never seemed lonely. A cuckoo popped out, and Dad looked up again to cross-reference the bird’s entrance with the other clocks hanging on the wall. That greeting announced I had been down there for forty-five minutes.
Dad had two clocks in front of him, and a grandfather clock lay open on a nearby table. I tried to think of it as Dad’s patient, instead of the casket it appeared to be. Dad slid his finger against the minute hand of the smaller clock, gently nudging it clockwise. As he moved the long hand, the little hand followed in synchrony.
Dad stared at the face of the clock and I wished I knew what he was thinking, or that he could look at my face that way again.
“Can you tell the difference?” Dad said at last.
“They both look like clocks to me.”
“One’s a timepiece; one’s a clock,” Dad said. I smiled, remembering how perfectly Matt had imitated Dad’s description.
“Don’t they both tell time?”
“One of them needs winding,” he explained. “And, you see, with this one you can take the big hand and the small hand and move them wherever you want. It won’t harm the clock.” He moved the smaller hand around the face. “But this one? You just move the big hand.” He slid the big hand clockwise and the little hand followed.
Dad adjusted his special eyeglasses then opened the back, took out his fine pen oiler, and began placing drops of liquid on certain parts inside.
“Why are you doing that?”
“I’m oiling it,” he said. “With whale oil.”
“Why whale?”
“It’s more pure than the earth’s oil,” he explained. “I need to oil the pivots. This is the verge.” Dad pointed to a part shaped like a boat anchor that moved back and forth. “That’s what makes the ticking noise. This is the pendulum bob, and this is the bezel that holds the glass face. This pin holds the hands in front.” Dad took out an old leather purse and removed from it an assortment of files, screwdrivers, and wire cutters.
“This clock over here is losing time.” Dad slid his chair toward another patient. “It’s winding down. It has what’s called a variable source of power and needs rewinding.” Dad pulled up another chair. “Here, do you want to wind it?” he asked and handed me a key. When I heard the door to the basement open, I looked up and saw Mom backlit at the top of the stairs.
“Did Abby tell you?” Mom’s steps were slow as she descended.
“Did Abby tell me what?” Dad asked.
“About Matt’s not-so-happy New Year.”
We were having a good time until Matt interrupted it. Again.
“Matt was pretty sick this morning. He got drunk again last night. Abby knows. She’s seen him,” Mom said. “I think we all know he has a problem.” She paused and then added, “And some of my jewelry is missing.” Could Matt steal from Mom?
“What’s gone?”
“The necklace you gave me on our anniversary.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“He needs more than a talking-to.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like where he’s headed.”
“I don’t either,” Dad agreed, frowning.
“I told him he’s grounded and that I’d be accompanying him everywhere, but that’s not a long-term solution. Something else is going on,” she said sadly. “I was thinking he needed to talk to someone. What if he …” Mom stopped and took a slow breath. “What if we all went in for counseling?”
Dad went back to the clocks.
“Don’t do that, John,” Mom said. “That clock thing. It doesn’t help us figure out what to do. We need to talk.”
“I am talking. Maybe Matt could see a counselor at school or something.”
“Oh, I see. Matt has a problem, but not you,” she said, tapping the table on you. “And Abby? You want me to make an appointment for her, too?” I winced. “Fine,” she said, and headed back upstairs.
Dad polished the exterior of the wood case, oiling it, then wiping it in silence. One side section had been damaged, almost as if someone had hammered it. Dad had sanded the wound and begun restoring the wood. I wished Dad could do the same with us.
On the first Sunday of the New Year, Mom said we needed fresh air, so she made Matt and me walk to church in our boots. Grooves of frozen muddy water made the trip a challenge. Because it hadn’t snowed since Christmas Eve, we were surrounded by the melting and refreezing remains of stained brown slush. No hope for a fresh flurry, just bitter-cold temperatures. How I longed for a good snowfall. The snowball-packing kind that covered the ugliness with white. The sky was dark, heavy, and overcast, so typical for January in the Midwest, and nearly as dense as the depression hovering over us.
It was too cold in church for me to take off my coat. Something had exploded in the boiler room, so there would be only one service that Sunday.
No sunshine illuminated the stained-glass windows, making the church dull and dark. So dim that during the singing of “In the Bleak Midwinter,” Matt ducked out of the sanctuary without Mom noticing. Though I had never before understood how winter could be bleak, I did now. This was Reverend Davidson’s first Sunday, and I had to confess some relief at his rough start. He was our third interim; the previous two looked like they had retired twenty years before. So far, nobody could rival Dad.
After that cold Epiphany service, Reverend Davidson announced Mrs. Tinsley wouldn’t be teaching my fourth-grade Sunday school class anymore. She had slipped on the ice and broken her hip. Did parishioners want to bring in hot meals? Being out a Sunday school teacher at the first of the year wasn’t a good omen. Hadn’t Mom called that prognostication?
Two weeks later, when Matt’s first semester report card came home, we learned Matt was not only skipping church but school as well, and so Mom called a family conference in the dining room. I wondered if she thought I was somehow his accomplice. And in my silence, was I?
“It says Matthew Joh
n McAndrews was absent four days in November and six in December.” Mom held the report card at arm’s length. Matt couldn’t alter a typed report card mailed home. “I know you were sick once, but the rest of this is a problem.”
“I’m disappointed, Matt,” Dad added.
Matt raised his eyebrows. It was the face of a dare, beckoning Dad to fight.
“Do I need to drop in periodically to check and see if you stayed in school? Or shall I go with you to class and hold your hand?” Mom suggested.
“No, Mom.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Matt stood up and pushed in his chair, “Look, no other guy is grounded all the time. I’m fifteen but you treat me like a kid.” He stopped. “Like Abby,” Matt concluded derisively.
“Abby’s showing more maturity than you are right now,” Dad said.
I didn’t like being a part of the comparison and exhaled through my teeth.
“Don’t do that, Abby,” Dad said and then returned to Matt. “The reason we treat you like a kid is because you’re acting like one. You’re not ready for responsibility.”
“We can’t trust you, Matt,” Mom chimed in. Had she talked to him about her necklace?
“As you earn our trust, you’ll get more responsibility and then more freedom,” Dad concluded.
I looked up at Matt. He was rolling his eyes but they missed it. Why was he doing that? I didn’t want to be in this much trouble—ever.
“You can go upstairs and start on your missing work. Now.”
My perfect packing snow arrived that evening. I had been testing each snowfall with marginal results. But after rolling a snowball from the foot of the steps down the length of the front walk, I had the base for an enormous snowman that could greet any passersby. This was not just any snowman, either. This was a fatman. A corpulent, obese snow creature who was more than rotund. I then ran back to the house and rolled a second ball in a parallel line. I strained to lift its weight, but it wouldn’t even budge.
“Matt!” I yelled. “I need help!”
Matt opened his window and looked out.
“What’s up?”
“I can’t lift it.”
“I don’t want to make a snowman, Abby. Besides, I’ve been banished to the tower.”
“Just put this ball on top, then I’ll roll the head and you can go back inside. It’s really good snow.”
I remembered a time we’d made a fort. And another time we’d made snow creatures and lay in the snow, teaching Joel how to make angels. Mom had Joel so bundled up he could barely flap his arms up and down, so Joel’s angel wings were small. When I helped him stand back up, we accidentally stepped on the design. Still, Joel stood in awe as if it were a real angel. Then Joel wanted to make our angels hold hands. And so we lay in the snow with me in the middle, holding Matt and Joel’s hands as we swished our arms up and down to make wings. Did Matt remember?
“Please, Matt?”
“Oh, all right. But only for a minute.”
Though it was bitterly cold, Matt only put on gloves and a hat. Either he was trying to be like his friends—underdressed and cold—or he meant it. I had one minute.
Matt struggled to heft the second mound on top and floundered. Some of the snow chipped off, so I began patching our snowman.
“He’ll be even taller than me,” Matt calculated. Did Matt actually sound proud?
“How do you know it’s a him?”
“Oh, shut up,” he swore.
“You’re not supposed to say that.”
“You gonna tell?” Matt dared. He knew I wouldn’t.
“It’s a her anyway,” I argued.
He tried again to lift the snowball, his face reddening with the strain. I lifted from my side until we had the ball slightly above the first snowball and then we lowered it. As I began gluing the two balls together with handfuls of snow, he turned to go.
“Where’s the head?” I called out.
“Oh yeah,” he said reluctantly, and waited.
I rolled a third stripe through the yard, stopping at Matt’s feet. Matt easily picked it up and then raised it above his head to set it on top. Our snowman was now much taller than Matt. Then he began pressing two snowballs across the front of what now would be a her.
“Matt!” I said in mock horror, my face warming.
“You said it was a girl,” he reminded as he stood back and surveyed the stout lady.
“You’ve been watching too many of those bad movies in the graveyard.”
He shrugged and headed back to the house.
“Can’t you stay?”
“It’s cold.”
“Then put something on.”
But Matt kept going. He kept moving away like always. I picked up another ball to start a friend for my snow lady, but instead fired a shot at his head. I’m usually a pretty bad aim, but that day I was Davy to his Goliath.
“Hey!” he yelled, batting the snow off his head and neck.
“You taught me how,” I said, giving him the credit.
Matt rubbed his head and took off his hat to shake the snow off. By then I had fired three more shots, two direct hits—one strategically nailing him on the butt.
If he was cold, he had forgotten. But now he was mad. Matt picked up a handful of snow and pitched it with his usual baseball precision. I ducked and narrowly missed a pitch to my head. But I wasn’t so lucky with Matt’s next four. Each time I bent over to make a snowball, he fired off another two shots. The scrape of snow on skin slashed like glass.
I retreated behind the hedge, but he lobbed them over. My face smarted from the last hit that nailed me in the right eye.
“Cut it out!”
“You started it!” he said as he shot another volley over the hedge. It was harder for me to make it over but I returned fire for fire. Or ice for ice.
Then I noticed Joel’s red wagon beneath the hedge and began filling it with ammunition. After ten snowballs, I moved down the sidewalk toward the tree and started firing them off, one-two-three-four-five-six. I had no idea what I’d do when I ran out, but I knew I’d go out in a blaze of glory.
I moved in on him, pulling the red wagon. Our flurry of snowballs quickened as we pummeled each other at close range. I always lost a snowball fight, but this time it felt good. I was in the fight. At close range I could nail him nearly every time. And though everything he threw at me hurt, it hurt better than not feeling anything. It hurt better than being invisible.
Finally I stormed the last four feet and ran squarely into him. The surprise jolted him so much, he staggered and nearly fell over. Just as I stepped back to plunge forward for a second attack, instead I ran up to him and wrapped my arms around him. At first he wrestled with me, but I wouldn’t let go. I buried my head into his sweater and locked my fingers together around his back. With the rhythms of a wrestler out of season, he slowed until he stopped. And then we stood there, not speaking.
“Hey,” he said at last.
I wouldn’t let go. Actually, I couldn’t let go.
“It’s okay.” Until he said it, I hadn’t realized I was crying. Or maybe I started crying because he said it. Who knows? “Let’s go inside now.”
I didn’t want to let go. He was listening to me and he had played with me and I thought maybe he still loved me. I squeezed him tightly and then dropped my arms. He took my shoulders and surveyed me at arm’s length.
“Oh Abby,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Is that why you’re crying?” Matt tugged off his glove and stroked my cheek. There was blood on his hand. “I hurt you. I’m sorry, Abby. I didn’t mean to.”
How could his touch ever hurt? The warmth of his hand brought life to my scraped cheek; I could feel the sting and it felt good and right.
“We gotta get inside and put something on that,” he said, putting his glove back on and taking my hand. But then he stomped his foot and pulled away. “Shoot, Mom’s going to kill me.”
“I’ll tell her—”
“You tell her the truth,” Matt interrupted as he turned to me. “You tell her that you started it and I’ll still be in trouble.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t even supposed to be down here. Now I’ll probably have even more sessions with that counselor.” Matt slumped in defeat. “Oh, what does it matter?”
“I’m sorry, Matt,” I said. But I wasn’t sorry. This was the best thing that had happened this whole year. Even if it was only a few days old.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said.
I smiled up at him. Complete forgiveness.
“People always get hurt, but never me.” Matt kicked at the snow.
I took off my scarf and wound it around his neck.
“It was my fault,” Matt said.
“No, it wasn’t. I started it!” I would have laughed, but Matt looked so sober, staring at the snow. A brutal wind whipped across the yard. I shivered and wiggled my toes in my boots and clenched my fingers tightly, then opened and closed them over and over.
Matt muttered something inaudible.
“What?”
“I said that’s not what I meant.”
I blew warm air down my gloves and rubbed my hands together.
“I shouldn’t have let Dad carry him.”
I stopped, frozen by his words. Was he serious?
“Matt, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Except maybe that lady driving the car.”
“Abby, Joel wanted me to hold him—” Matt’s voice choked. “It’s all he wanted. He just wanted me and I let him down. Literally.”
I didn’t know what to do with his words and thought if only Matt could tell somebody else—maybe Dad or Mom—it might help. But then I realized that telling them might not make it better. Dad had pulled Joel out of Matt’s arms, and Mom had told him to.
“It was an accident. You couldn’t know,” I said desperately. I felt like I was losing a brother. Again.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asked seriously, intently.
“Well, yeah,” I answered and thought, Unfortunately.
“Where was I?” Matt stood without shivering.
“What do you mean?” I asked, shaking even though I was the one wearing a coat.
“Where was I when it happened?”
Stars in the Grass Page 13