Trouble

by Gary D. Schmidt

  Henry reached up, unlocked the window, and opened it to let the breeze in—probably breaking all sorts of rules about germ infiltration and hygiene that the hospital had ever conceived. But he didn't care. The breeze came in immediately and filled the room with its cool breath. Henry pulled it down into his lungs. Deep. Then he thought he heard the sheets on his brother's bed rustle, and he turned.

  The light over Franklin's bed was off and the long curtain that hung beside him shadowed his pale face. But Franklin's eyes were open. He was looking past Henry, out the window. His eyes were open. Henry was as sure, as certain as the tide. He watched.

  Then Franklin's eyes closed. It was as if a ghost had flickered into Franklin's body and, with all the elusive ways of ghosts, had chosen to ignore him.

  "Franklin," Henry whispered. He walked to the bed on his strong legs. "Franklin." He lifted his brother's right arm with his strong hand.

  Nothing. His brother's skin was baggy and wrinkled and dry to the touch.

  Henry did not tell his mother that Franklin had opened his eyes when she came back in. He wasn't sure why he didn't. Maybe because she wouldn't have believed him. Maybe because he might have been wrong. (He wasn't.) Maybe because he wanted to hold this one piece of his brother to himself. But for whatever reason, he insisted that they keep the window open that afternoon, even when the nurse on duty came in to fuss.

  His brother had opened his eyes.

  But it was the only time, and as the days—then weeks—went by, and May started to think about letting June have her way, Henry grew less sure, after all.

  What he was sure of was that the Whittier Academy crew team was going to dominate the Cape Ann Coastal Invitational. The thought of the Merton shell stoked their practices. And every dual meet on every Saturday morning brought them a new victory—by three, sometimes four, boat lengths. Each meet led to another Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle front-page article about how this crew was the finest that Whittier Academy had seen in decades, how it didn't look as if any regional crew could hope to touch it, how when these rowers had graduated and moved up to Longfellow Prep, state high school records would fall. Quickly.

  Henry knew they were right. He knew they'd see the unlikely happen.

  How could anyone have ever guessed that the cost would be knowing? Once and for all, knowing. Knowing finally why there were tears and laughter for the younger brother. And knowing finally why there were no tears and no laughter for him.

  Knowing finally why he was never touched, why he was never held. Why there was disgust and blame. And when he knew the terrible story for the first time, it was as if mountains had slammed shut forever.

  Knowing meant there was nothing for him. Not the past he had believed, which was a lie. Not the future he had hoped for, which he had hoped for in those moments when hope can stir against all reality.

  In the cold morning of the nothing, there was first shame, and then loneliness.

  And in the loneliness, another terrible knowledge grew: He had to leave home, because it was no longer home. Maybe it had never been home.

  He would leave home, fade far away, dissolve.

  9

  WHEN THE DAY for the Cape Ann Coastal Invitational finally came—the last Saturday in May—most of Blythbury-by-the-Sea turned out. Its cheerful citizens arranged themselves along the banks of the Charles River, where the invitational was being held since so many teams were competing. They stood dressed in red and white, holding traditional Whittier Academy banners—a lion and unicorn rampant—and singing the school song while the Whittier Pep Band played loudly.

  Whittier, Whittier,

  All hail to thee!

  In thee our past is bright,

  Forever red and white.

  Whittier, Whittier,

  Hail, Victory!

  They clapped and cheered loudly at the end of each rendition—and started up again whenever the pep band blared its brassy tones into the blue sky, over the blue river, and onto the blue-clothed crowd from Merton, who stood together, sort of quiet and huddled, watching events on the river that they really didn't understand. But nevertheless, every so often they shouted encouragement in words Henry did not recognize, calls that were answered by flashing smiles and waves from the Merton crew manhandling their shell into the Charles.

  The Whittier team slid their shell in and watched it bob merrily on the water before climbing into their places. The wind cutting in from Boston Harbor made the river a little choppy—there were even some whitecaps—but Henry settled down into the shell and felt his body sway easily to meet the low waves. They pulled out into the river for warm-ups, and Henry felt the good familiar pull of muscle against water; still, when they got out onto the water, the wind struck his back, and he knew that this was going to be a hard row.

  But he figured that it was going to be a harder row for the Merton team, who were struggling with the choppy waves and their uncooperative shell, and whose coxswain had already been dunked once and was probably shivering in the cool wind. The invitational's referees would have to give them a little more time—a lot more time, Henry thought—to get themselves together—which they very patiently did.

  Meanwhile, the Whittier Academy crew team moored for Coach Santori's last-minute encouragement, giving the Whittier parents and students and everyone else from Blythbury-by-the-Sea another chance to cheer and holler and sing the school song—"Hail, Victory!"—and wave the school banners bravely in the breeze. It was Coach Santori's usual encouragement: "Bring home the trophy today or you'll be holding this shell over your heads and running laps on Monday." So motivated, Henry went up on the dock to take one last gulp of water.

  Sanborn was waiting for him. "You ready?"

  Henry swallowed and nodded. "Not even a challenge," he said.

  Sanborn nodded to the Merton crew heading toward the starting line. "They're eager."

  Henry looked around.

  "The boat from Merton," said Sanford.

  "It's not a boat, Sanford. It's a shell."

  "Yeah, well, can you make out the first rower?"

  "So?"

  "It's a Chouan."

  Henry turned around and stared at the first rower. "How do you know?"

  "Everyone knows." Sanborn waved back at the Blythbury-by-the-Sea parents. "That's all they're talking about back there—at least, between songs."

  Henry did not look at the Blythbury-by-the-Sea parents; he looked at the Merton parents, and he found them—the Chouans—the tiny Mrs. Chouan, the post-thick arms of Mr. Chouan around her. Henry wondered if Chay was there, too, cheering on his younger brother.

  He turned back to Sanborn. "We'll give them something else to talk about," he said. "When we cross the line, Merton won't even be in sight."

  Which is what he told Coach Santori when he climbed into the shell. Which is what he told the other rowers while they waited at the line, tipping up and down in the unruly Charles. Which is what he told himself as he watched the Blythbury-by-the-Sea parents prepare to run to their cars to reach the finish line in time. You'd better hurry, Henry thought. Then he felt his body grow tight, tighter, tighter as he waited for the shot from the starting gun and the first powerful pull of his powerful arms and powerful legs.

  Then the shot came, clear and sharp.

  And eleven shells plowed into the water, the spray of the Charles thrown up and dashed back across the rowers.

  But that was not how it was for the twelfth shell—the Blythbury-by-the-Sea shell. At the very first stroke, the shell leaped clear of the river, as if it would take to the air, and its rowers were almost into their second stroke before their bow came back into the Charles, cleaving through the water cleanly and purely, as if the river were parting before them. They had not gone four strokes before Henry could glimpse the other crews already falling behind. They had not gone ten strokes when he could see that they had already pulled a full length ahead of Merton.

  He could almost have laughed.

  Henry felt the
wind against his back, cold and hard, as if it had a mind to push him sternward. But the thrust of his legs and the pull of his arms were strong, and he fell easily into the rhythm of his crew, as if every thrust and every pull was not his own but belonged to the shell itself, slicing through air and water and current. With every pull, Henry felt stronger. With every thrust, he felt the other rowers perfectly in the rhythm that Brandon Sheringham called out. We must be a joy to see from the shore, he thought.

  By the half-mile mark, the Blythbury-by-the-Sea boat was four lengths ahead of the other eleven teams, and Henry was strong; he figured they could row down the Charles, out into Boston Harbor, and on to Portugal without much trouble. Two of the other boats had drifted too close to each other in the lanes and were clashing oars. Another had a coxswain who was wallowing them from side to side—probably because they hadn't worked up enough speed to keep them going straight in this choppy water. The others looked game enough, but it was pretty clear that whoever was left was competing for second and third place—or, at least, some sort of showing in which they would not be completely humiliated. Of these, the crew from Merton looked slightly ahead, though it was hard to tell. If they hadn't been splashing their blades so much, maybe they would definitely be ahead. As it was, they were throwing up more white water from their sides than any other boat, and sometimes their oars would smack against each other loudly, and sometimes their rowers wouldn't go deep enough and just skim the surface—a wasted stroke—or they would go too deep and not come up soon enough for the rhythm of the next rower—so the oars would smack together again.

  Henry smiled and pulled cleanly, feathering his blade and sliding it above the water, then catching it down and slicing into the river, and then drawing it back, sending the boat forward. Propelling the boat forward!

  The banks of the Charles River fled past as the John Greenleaf Whittier Academy crew team rowed by young forests, bright green still in their late spring attire. They rowed past corporate offices wealthy enough to situate their glass-fronted selves alongside a river view. They rowed past crew teams from Harvard and MIT and Boston University, warming up for their Saturday morning practice, who clapped as Whittier flew by. Henry watched it all, and his pulls stayed strong and even.

  The crew from Merton was definitely in second place now—even with all of its splashing and missed rhythms. The Blythbury-by-the-Sea boat was seven or eight lengths ahead, and Brandon Sheringham had already slowed their pace down, preparing for the sprint of the last five hundred yards. Henry felt his body relax, but he could see that there was no relaxing in the Merton shell. If they couldn't get the rhythm right, and if they didn't have a shell nearly as sleek and clean in its lines as the Blythbury-by-the-Sea shell, and if they had a coxswain who hadn't any idea about what to do in choppy water like today's—well, they would simply muscle their way through it all. Or maybe it was simply guts powering the Merton shell.

  Which was now six lengths back. The wind was catching the splashes they put up and soaking the coxswain and stern rower.

  Henry watched as Brandon Sheringham turned around at the sound. He seemed surprised when he looked back at his squad, and immediately he picked up the rhythm of the strokes.

  In the Merton shell, the bow rower turned around to see how far ahead Henry's boat was, and when he turned, Chay Chouan's brother looked full into Henry's face.

  He knew who Henry was. Henry could tell. And Henry knew who he was.

  Henry held his blade suspended for a second—less than a second. And it was slapped out of his hand by the pull from ahead.

  "What are you doing?" cried Brandon Sheringham.

  Henry grasped wildly for the handle of his oar, but the blade was still in the churning water, and it danced away from him. He felt the shell sheering.

  "Smith!" shouted Brandon Sheringham.

  Henry grabbed the dancing handle. He tried to fall immediately into the crew's rhythm, but he struck first the oar ahead, then behind, then ahead again. He feathered his oar up out of the water until he could get the timing right, and missed it the first time, and the second. He felt the coxswain shift the rudder, but the shell tilted away from the center of the lane.

  Finally, on the third try, Henry got his oar aligned with his crew's. He heard Brandon Sheringham hollering and probably swearing, and he felt the shell tip back sharply and briskly toward the center of the lane, go too far, and then start to come back. He pulled hard with the new and strong rhythm, and the shell straightened.

  But when Henry looked out to the river again, the Merton shell was only a single length behind them. Their coxswain was screaming as if Trouble itself was riding on their stern.

  Henry thought he was going to be sick.

  The whole world contracted: two shells desperately rowing their last four hundred yards, the shell from Blythbury-by-the-Sea pulling in perfect and beautiful rhythm, the shell from Merton tearing through the choppy Charles with brute force. Henry could see nothing else—not the fleeing banks of the river, not the oars feathered outside the boats, not the water itself. He could see only the length of his own shell, and just past it, the length of the Merton shell and the rounded back of Chouan in the bow, pulling, pulling, pulling.

  Probably the Blythbury-by-the-Sea parents and the Merton parents were screaming and hollering from the riverside, but if they were, the sound did not reach Henry. The only sounds he heard were Merton's splashes in the river, the stretch of the oars against the oarlocks, the harsh breathing of his crew, the shrieks of Brandon Sheringham and the Merton coxswain. And the beating of his own heart. It all came to him in a rush of noise; he couldn't have sorted it out if he tried.

  "Eyes on me!" hollered his coxswain, and Henry focused, pulling, pulling, pulling, but his eyes could not help but glance over at Merton. At Chouan.

  Two hundred yards to go.

  The Merton shell drew up to within half a length.

  One hundred yards to go.

  Less than half a length.

  And Chay Chouan's brother, in the bow of his boat, and Henry, midships, were pulling side by side.

  They did not look across at each other.

  Henry wondered wildly if Chouan was as aware of him as he was of Chouan. But he couldn't figure this out, because his own brain was so tied to the rhythm of the blade, the strokes, the pressure and release of the water.

  Then he did look over.

  At the same time that Chouan looked at him.

  "Smith, eyes in the shell!" yelled Brandon Sheringham. And Henry turned back and closed his eyes and rowed. He felt the muscles in his arms and legs grow thick and slow and tight. He felt his back bend almost to breaking, as if his spine had brittled like that of the wrecked ship in the cove. He felt a darkness in the center of his chest, a place where all the air had been sucked and had turned solid, so that nothing else could get in.

  And so, when they crossed the finish line less than a quarter length ahead of the Merton boat, the rower behind Henry had to grab his arms to tell him that he could stop rowing. No one in the shell was cheering except for Brandon Sheringham, and even he could barely croak out, "Whittier! Whittier! Whittier!"

  Henry sank into himself, and sweat suddenly drenched him.

  They drifted.

  One by one, the rest of the crews crossed the line, and Henry watched them as if he were far away and not connected at all with what had just happened. From the shore he could hear the Whittier parents chanting "Whittier! Red and White! Whittier! Red and White!" as their parents had chanted before them, and their parents before them. But as they half-rowed, half-drifted back to the landing dock, all Henry could think of was the glance from Chouan.

  The flushed, strained, ... and indeterminate glance.

  But Brandon Sheringham was not indeterminate. He was jubilant. He leaped out at the landing and held the bow of the shell up as, one by one, Henry's crew climbed out. Slowly. Henry's legs felt as if the bones in them had dissolved and he was quivering on jelly. But the Whittier crowd
was singing their song again, and their cheers snapped like flags in the brisk breeze. Coach Santori had their team jackets ready—their red and white shining like royalty—and Henry quickly put his on, since already he was feeling the chill of his cooling sweat. But "cool" might also describe Coach Santori's face as he handed his jacket to him. Definitely cool. Maybe even cold.

  He was not a happy Coach Santori, and Henry wondered if they would be running laps while holding their shell over their heads, after all—even though they had won.

  Or if he might be running the laps by himself.

  As the parents organized the Whittier crew for the group victory pictures—"All hail to thee!"—Henry looked over at the Merton team—who had no team jackets, no sweats—and he watched Disappointment cloak them. They had beaten the other Cape Ann teams. And the Merton parents were cheering and clapping, too. But no one from the Merton crew was celebrating.

  After the pictures, all the crews lined up—the south side of Cape Ann in one line, the north in another—to shake hands. "Good race," "Good race," "Good race," Henry said again and again to the Beverley team, and the Ipswich team, and the Gloucester team, and the Rockport team. "Good race," "Good race." But all the time, he was aware of Merton's crew behind his own, shaking the hands that he shook first. And when they had finished and the two lines turned to shake each other's hands, Henry stayed only until his crew came to the first Merton rower, and then he turned back to the landing dock.

  The rest of the John Greenleaf Whittier Academy crew team followed.

  Even Coach Santori, who gathered his crew in a tight group and congratulated them, looking every one of them in the eye and nodding—at everyone except for Henry, who thought once again that he might be running laps on Monday. Not even the sight of the elegant glass-and-silver trophy raised above Brandon Sheringham's head cheered him.