“I don’t need one,” he replies.
“That’s a stranger name than Blister,” I say, and the man chuckles, with a sound that rattles in his throat. “Will you sing again for us?” I ask him.
“Only if you join in,” he says.
Blister looks at me and shakes his head sharply.
“I’m not sure that Blister is too good,” I laugh.
“Yeah,” Blister says. “I’d scare the leaves off the trees.”
“They’re evergreen,” the old man says.
“Well, I’d scare something.” Blister takes off the bag from his back and sits down next to me.
“It’s you and me then, June,” the man says.
“I’m not so good, either,” I say. I haven’t really sung since my mom died. No one sings in our house anymore.
“Try,” the old man says. He moves his fingers over the strings and the guitar’s gentle sound fills the space between us. “You choose the song.”
I look briefly at the sky.
“Carole King, ‘You’ve Got a Friend,’ ” I say, before I change my mind.
“Right.”
He starts to strum. And I start to sing.
I close my eyes, so that it’s just me and the old man. And my mom too. Before, I couldn’t remember what she sounded like, but now I can hear her so clearly in my head. Her calm, sweet voice, as she sings with me. Rocking me to sleep. Cooking together in the kitchen. Planting flowers in the yard. The music makes her live again.
The old man sings with me, his voice like smoke. And I keep going, holding my mom’s voice in mine.
When we stop, the air feels empty.
I open my eyes and Blister is staring at me.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he says.
“You’ve never sung to Jacob before?” the old man asks. I shake my head, but remember he can’t see.
“No,” I say.
“You have a gift,” the old man says. “You should use it more.”
“Do you play guitar too?” Blister asks me. He’s looking confused, as though there’s a whole new part of me he doesn’t know.
“No.” I’m looking at the old man as I reply. I want him to play again. “My mom tried to teach me a few times, but it was too difficult. Maybe I was too young.”
“You should ask her to try teaching you again,” the old man says. “Can she sing too?”
I know Blister is looking at me, but I don’t want my mom to die here. I can make her live again, just for a bit.
“Yes,” I say. “She has a beautiful voice.”
“Well, when you get home,” the old man says, pointing his finger in the direction of where we are, “you must go straight up and ask her to teach you.”
“I will,” I say.
“Is she as beautiful as you, June?” he asks.
“More so,” I say. I should tell him that I’m not beautiful, that my voice has tricked him.
“You should believe in yourself. I think that Jacob believes in you, don’t you, son?”
“Completely,” Blister says.
The old man strums a chord and the air buzzes again. He starts to sing and I join him. This time, I keep my eyes open. This time, I watch as he rests his head back and smiles out the words. I look over at Blister and he’s still staring at me. He leans over and kisses me on the lips, as I sing.
And I sing louder. To the tops of the trees and the tip of the sky. The flowers hear me. And the distant road. I mark them all with our song.
•••
Megan is standing in my doorway. She’s looking at the art project I’ve spread out on my bedroom floor.
“What do you want?” I ask her. These days, more than anything, she just makes me tired.
“Is that for school?” she asks. She sounds like she really is interested.
“It’s none of your business.”
I’ve painted our singing man leaning against his tree. I had to do three practice sketches before the final picture in paint. But he’s ours, mine and Blister’s, and I don’t want her to know.
“It’s good,” she says, twisting her head around to get a better look.
“Close the door on your way out,” I tell her. I look up and see a glimpse of hurt flash across her face. Then she seems to close up like a book.
“Do you know how ugly you are?” Her words seem young and childish, without Kathleen to drive them on.
“This is my room,” I say calmly. I don’t want her in here. I don’t want the confusion of anger mixed with guilt that she sometimes makes me feel.
“Fine.” She turns around and slams the door.
I look back down at our singing man. In the picture, I’ve given him eyes that see. And tomorrow after school I’ll roll it up and take it to show Blister, even though I’m scared that I’ll crack the paint, or crease the paper and ruin it.
The door opens suddenly. I see it too late. The orange juice that Megan throws arcs through the air before I can stop it and splashes all over my picture. The colors leak. The old man’s face blurs.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, kneeling down dramatically. She has a cloth and she’s rubbing hard at my soaked painting, bleeding the colors and ripping the paper.
I push her back so hard that even I’m surprised. She bangs her head against the wall and screams so loudly that I want to grab the cloth and force it down her throat.
I can tell that it’s my dad running up the stairs. His footsteps are loud and heavy.
“What’s happened?” He goes to Megan. She’s crying hysterically and trying to speak, but the words don’t make sense. My dad looks at me.
“She ruined my painting,” I say. I don’t want to look at it.
“It was an accident,” she cries.
“Hush, it’s OK,” my dad says, stroking her hair.
“I brought her a drink,” Megan said. “But she said she didn’t want it and she pushed me away. It spilled all over her picture.” She’s crying too much to speak again. Why can’t he see that she’s pretending? Acting like a child to get his sympathy.
“Where does it hurt?” my dad asks her.
“Her picture was so good,” Megan says.
She buries her head in my dad’s arms. He looks over the top of her at me. I can tell that he’s furious.
“Look at my painting,” I say, pointing down to it.
“But it wasn’t Megan’s fault,” he says.
“I’m sorry, June.” She looks at me with such innocent eyes. “I only wanted to bring you a drink.”
“You did a good thing,” my dad tells her.
I stare at him. I wait for him to see the truth, but I know he never will.
“It was really good,” I say quietly. And Blister never got to see it.
“It’s your own fault,” my dad says, helping Megan to her feet. Her dramatic crying has turned to pathetic little sobs. But still he believes her. She’s not even his real daughter, but still he won’t see.
He shuts the door and I scream until my voice runs out. And then I rip the remains of our singing man into tiny little shreds and scatter him like raindrops over my carpet.
After
“Therefore, we do not lose heart,” Reverend Shaw reads. “But though our outer man is decaying, yet our inner man is being renewed day by day.”
I put my hand on his Bible to stop him.
“It felt like almost everyone was trying to destroy the inner me,” I say. “I tried to pretend that it didn’t touch me, but it cut me inside.”
“You must have felt very scared.”
“And alone. The only time I felt happy was with Blister. I felt safe with him.”
“Yet you never felt you could tell him everything?”
“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t want him to know, so that when we were together I could pretend that my other world didn’t exist. I knew that if I told him, I’d never be able to escape it.”
“And have you managed to escape it now?”
“No,”
I say. “It’s part of my shadow.”
“There is a way,” Reverend Shaw says calmly, “because when you forgive someone you let a part of yourself go free. At the moment, the people who hurt you still have control. If you forgive them, your soul can be your own again.”
“But if I do, it feels like they’re getting away with it all.”
“Holding on to it will only poison you. Haven’t they done enough damage already?”
“Yes.” My voice is so quiet that I can barely hear it.
Kathleen and Megan crowd into my mind and I don’t want them there. This is my place of peace, but I don’t know how to make them disappear.
“Try to let them go, June,” Reverend Shaw says. “Set yourself free.”
Before
two months later
Blister’s house is even more chaotic than normal. Everyone seems to be criss-crossing in different directions and talking loudly all at once.
“It wasn’t meant to rain today,” Mrs. Wick says, shoving raincoats into a big bag. She drops one and I pick it up for her.
“We won’t need them,” Mr. Wick says, Chubbers on his hip. “It’ll stop soon and it’s warm enough to dry us out.”
“I’m taking them anyway.” Mrs. Wick heaves the bag out the front door.
“Tom!” Mr. Wick calls up the stairs.
“Ready?” Blister asks me as he comes out of the kitchen.
I smile. “Yup.”
Tom comes running down the stairs, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor.
“Shoes, Tom.” Mr. Wick is beginning to sound irritated. “And socks.”
“I couldn’t find any.”
“I’ll help him,” I say, and I run up the stairs to look in the little square shelves at the top. They’ve each got their own place, their name carved in the wood by Mr. Wick, but the clothes still always manage to get muddled. Blister says that when it’s Eddie’s turn to sort, he just takes handfuls and shoves them in where they’ll fit.
Tom’s shelf is empty, so I pull out the clothes from Si’s next to his.
“Hurry up, June!” Mr. Wick calls up the stairs.
There’s one sock in Si’s shelf and one in Mil’s. They’re slightly different sizes, but they’re both blue, so they’ll do.
“Coming down,” I shout, as I ball them up and aim them at Tom’s head. It makes him laugh when they hit him and he sits on the bottom step to put them on.
“We’ll wait in the car,” Mr. Wick says. “You two—” he nods to me and Blister—“will have to be in the trailer.”
“But it’s raining,” Blister says.
“I’ve got the tarp covering it. You’ll be fine.”
“You can’t do that to June,” Blister protests.
“You two are the oldest without Maggie here, so if you want to come, that’s where you’ve got to be,” he says, and he walks out the front door.
“I’ll be fine.” I look up at Blister.
“Tom’s old enough to do his own shoes,” he tells me.
“I like it,” I say, tightening the laces and standing up. “Let’s go.”
It’s not raining much, but it’s enough. All three of us rush to the car, where everyone is waiting, all squashed in.
Mr. Wick buckles Tom’s seatbelt as Blister and I climb into the trailer and under the large sheet of gray plastic.
“And keep your heads down,” Mr. Wick reminds us. He’s put cushions in here for each of us, but it’s still not going to be the comfiest ride.
“Sorry,” Blister says, as he pulls the tarp over us.
“It’s fine,” I say. Because it is.
I lie down and Blister attaches the sheet to the other side. It’s like we’re in a little box, with light peeping through the cracks in the side.
I giggle as the car begins to pull us along, slowly at first and then gathering speed.
“It’s a bit bumpy,” Blister says, his voice competing with the rain.
“It’s fun,” I say.
“Strange idea of fun you have, June.” Blister turns onto his side and looks at me.
It’s amazing how everything stops when I’m this close to him, as though there’s nothing else. I could live with it just being him and me forever.
He reaches over and touches my cheek. That’s all there is. His skin on my skin. It’s all we need.
He stares at me for such a long time. There’s rain on the tarp and there’s us.
“What?” I smile.
Blister takes a deep breath. “I love you, June.” My breath takes in his words.
Blister loves me.
I stare at him. I can see his eyes in the semi-light.
I kiss the tips of my fingers and touch them to his lips.
“I love you too, Blister.”
He puts his arms around me and pulls me so close to him. And he kisses me stronger than he’s ever kissed me before.
My Blister.
My Blister, who loves me.
•••
The car stops. I hear the doors open, but there’s too much noise to work out a single conversation.
Blister unhooks the tarp. I blink in the light as the rain hits us.
“OK?” Mr. Wick asks, putting out his hand to help me jump down. I wonder if he knows how much we’ve been kissing. From the way he looks at Blister, I think he does.
We’ve parked on the side of the road, behind a long row of cars. From here we can see the edge of the fair and hear the tinny music.
“Raincoats on,” Mrs. Wick says, grabbing Chubbers by the wrist as he tries to get free.
“They’ll be fine,” Mr. Wick says.
“It’s wet.” Mrs. Wick hands out the coats to the children.
Blister and I help shove arms into plastic sleeves. It’s quite wet on the road and I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t chosen sandals.
We walk in single file. I keep my hands on Mil’s shoulders, to stop her from running among the cars.
At the entrance, Mr. Wick puts a handful of coins in the bucket. The music is louder here. And there are so many people already.
“OK, if anyone gets lost, this is the meeting place.” Mr. Wick points to the pole stuck in the ground. At the top of it is a bright yellow flag. He ties a piece of string to his wrist and loops the other end through Chubbers’ belt.
“Food first?” Mrs. Wick asks.
“The flying swings,” Si says, pulling at Mr. Wick’s coat. Eddie pushes Mil and she stumbles backwards.
“Enough, you two.” Mr. Wick steps between them.
A band starts up on the stage just ahead. It’s difficult to hear each other now above the blasts of trumpets and saxophones.
Tom pulls my hand.
“I’d like to see,” he says. I look at Mrs. Wick.
“All right,” she sighs. So we walk toward the ramshackle stage and join the small crowd at the front.
Tom wants to dance. And he wants me to dance with him, in front of all these people. He’s a puppet to the music as he moves. Anyone watching would never know that, inside him, he has broken lungs. That his life will end far, far before his time.
I take his hands and swing him around. If people are looking at us, I don’t care. If they’re not looking, I don’t care either. Because I’m making Tom laugh, I’m making him smile and I’m mending his sickness for just a bit as we stamp along to the music and clap our hands high above our heads.
Blister joins in. I’ve never really seen him dance before. He looks a bit awkward and he’s not quite in time with the music, but I love him all the more for it. He takes Mil’s hand and twists her under his arm. They link elbows and spin around. The rain keeps time with us, although it’s slowing down.
We only stop when Tom gets tired, his breathing wispy in his chest.
“Let’s see if we can find a table,” Mr. Wick says.
“Can we go on that ride?” I ask Blister. I point to the one where the seats are climbing up and swooping low so quickly that everyone is throwing their arms up
and screaming.
“Seriously?” he asks. I nod. He looks across at it, but doesn’t move.
“Too scared?” I poke him in his side.
“They make me feel sick,” he says.
“I’ll hold your hand.” I take his fingers in mine. “Please?”
“Oh, June. I hate them.”
“For me.”
“Go on, Blister,” Tom says.
“You want to make me sick, in front of everyone?” Blister asks me.
“No. I want to go on a ride with you.”
He looks at me and back at the ride.
“Dad, June wants to make me suffer.”
“Good thing too,” Mr. Wick says. “We can all come and watch.”
Tom is pulling Blister toward the ride.
I get my purse out as we get to the barrier. The man waiting to take our money barely registers us as we step up.
“I’ll pay for the pleasure of this,” Mr. Wick laughs, handing the man some coins.
“Dad,” Blister says pleadingly.
“Enjoy.”
I take Blister’s hand and pull him toward two seats. We snap belts across our laps and the man comes to pull down a bar to trap us in.
“I really hate this, June.”
“I really love you, Blister.”
I swing my legs as we wait. A younger child gets onto the seat in front of us. I wave as we begin to move.
The ride starts slowly. I put my hand on top of Blister’s as the seat climbs up and starts to rush down the other side. It’s going faster than I imagined it would. Blister’s family is there and then they’re gone. Steeply up. Quicker. They’re there. Gone.
Blister’s eyes are shut. His fingers are curled around the bar. He’s hating it. And I made him do this for me. The guilt suddenly whips at me with the wind.
“I’m sorry,” I shout, but I don’t think he hears me above the thudding music and the noise of his own fear.
They’re there, laughing. They’re gone.
Fast up. My stomach ducking and clinging to the top.
I look across the heads of the people and suddenly I see them—a cluster of girls from Megan’s class. They’re close enough to spot me, but they’re walking away.
The ride goes straight down.
When we go up again, I look to where they were, but they’ve disappeared.
We begin to slow. Blister’s family is laughing, but his eyes are shut too tight to see.
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