The man at the podium introduced himself as the school’s principal. He said a few things about loss, and community, and the fleeting preciousness of youth. He talked briefly about Michael’s kindness, his artistic talent, and the impression he made, even as a small child, on everyone he met. It was true, Charlie reflected. Michael had been an unusually charismatic child. He wasn’t exactly a leader, but they all found themselves wanting to please him, to make him smile, and so they often did the things they knew he wanted to do, just to make him happy.
The principal finished, and introduced Michael’s parents: Joan and Donald Brooks.
They stood at the podium awkwardly, each looking from face to face in the crowd, as if they were not sure how they had gotten here. Finally Joan stepped forward.
“It feels strange to be up here,” was the first thing she said, and a murmur of something like agreement swept quietly through the crowd. “We are so grateful to all of you for coming, especially those of you who came from out of town.” She looked directly at the front row, talking to Charlie and the others. “Some of Michael’s friends have come from all over, and I think that is a testament to who he was, that ten years later, with your lives on new paths, moving on to a whole stage new stage of life—” So close to the stage, Charlie could see she was about to cry, tears wavering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “We are grateful you are here. We wanted to give Michael a legacy, with this scholarship, but it is clear that he has already left one, all on his own.” Marla grabbed Charlie’s hand, and Charlie squeezed back.
“I want to say,” Joan continued, “something about the families who are not here. As we all know, Michael was not the only child lost during those terrible few months.” She read out four more names, two girls and two boys. Charlie glanced at Marla. They all knew there had been other children, but Michael’s death had loomed so great in all their lives, that they had never even talked about the other victims. Now, Charlie felt a pang of guilt. To someone, those little girls and boys had been as vital as Michael. To someone, their losses had meant the end of the world. She closed her eyes for a moment. I can’t mourn everyone, she thought. No one can.
Joan was still talking. “Although their families have moved on to other places, those young boys and girls will always have a place in our hearts. Now, I would like to call to speak a young man who was particularly close to my son. Carlton, if you would?”
They all watched in surprise as Carlton stood and climbed up behind the podium. Joan hugged him tightly, and stayed close behind him as he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He cleared his throat, looking over the heads of the crowd, then crumbled the paper up again and put it back in his pocket.
“I don’t remember as much about Michael as I should,” he said finally. “Too much of those years is a blur; I know we met when we were still in diapers, but I don’t remember that, thankfully.” There was a soft titter through the crowd. “I do know that as far back as I have memories, Michael is in them. I remember playing superheroes, drawing, which he was much better at than me, and as we got older I remember… well, playing superheroes and drawing. What I really remember, though, is that my days were always more exciting when he was in them. He was smarter than me; he was the one always coming up with new ideas, new ways to get in trouble. Sorry about those lamps, by the way, Mrs. Brooks. If I had jumped the way Michael said, I probably would only have broken one.” Donald laughed, a gulping, desperate sound.
Charlie shifted uncomfortably, and pulled her hand from Marla’s with an apologetic half-smile. Their grief, naked, was too much to watch. It was raw, an open wound, and she could not stand to look.
Carlton came back down to sit with them. Michael’s grandmother spoke, and then his father, who had recovered enough to share a memory of taking his son to his first art class. He told the crowd about the scholarship, for a graduating senior who has demonstrated both excellence and passion in the arts, and announced the winner of the first one, Anne Park, a slight Vietnamese girl who came quickly up to the stage to accept her plaque, and hugs from Michael’s parents. It must have been strange for Anne, Charlie thought, her honor so overshadowed by its origins. But then, she realized, Anne must have known Michael, too, however much in passing.
After the ceremony, they went to say hello to Michael’s parents, hugging them and making sounds of condolence. What did you say to someone who has lost a child? Can it be any easier? Can ten years make a difference, or do they wake up each morning as fresh with grief as the day he died? On a long cafeteria table by the stage, pictures and cards were collecting slowly—people had brought flowers, notes to Michael’s parents, or to him. Things they remembered, things they wished they had said. Charlie went over and browsed through them. There were pictures of her, and the others, as well as of Michael. It shouldn’t have surprised her—they were all together constantly, as a group or in rotating groups of two and three. She saw herself in the middle of a smiling pose; her, Michael, and John, all covered in mud, with Jessica beside them, still perfectly clean, refusing to go near them. Charlie smiled. That looks about right. In another, a five-year-old Marla struggled to support the weight of her newborn little brother, with Lamar peering suspiciously at the tiny thing over her shoulder. Some of Michael’s drawings were there, too, crayon scribbles professionally, incongruously framed.
Charlie picked one up, a drawing of what she supposed was a T-Rex, stomping through a city. It was actually, she realized now, almost amazing how talented he was. While she and the others were scribbling stick figures, Michael’s drawings looked realistic, sort of.
“That’s really good,” John said over her shoulder. Charlie startled.
“You scared me,” she said.
“Sorry.”
Charlie looked back at the drawing. Whatever it was, it was better than she could draw now. Suddenly her chest tightened, gripped with loss and rage. It wasn’t just that Michael died young, it was what that truly meant: he had been stopped in his tracks, years, decades of life snatched and torn violently from him. She felt herself well up with youthful indignation, as if she were a child again, wanting only to whine it’s not fair!
Taking a deep breath, Charlie set the picture back down on the table, and turned away. The gathering was continuing, but she needed to leave. She caught Marla’s eye, and Marla, as scarily intuitive as always, nodded, and caught Lamar’s sleeve. From their various vantage points, they all headed for the parking lot. No one seemed to notice their departure, which made sense. Except for Carlton, they were all strangers here.
In the lot, they stopped by Marla’s car. She had somehow called down a miracle and found a space right next to the school.
“Can I play my game now?” Jason said immediately, and Marla found her keys in her purse and handed them over.
“Don’t drive away,” she warned. Suddenly, Marla grabbed her brother and pulled him close, hugging him to her for a long minute.
“Jeez, I’m only going to the car,” he muttered when she let him go.
“Yeah, maybe I should let you drive away,” she said, giving him a little push. She cleared her throat. “So, are we going to Freddy’s?” She said. They all looked at one another.
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “I think we should.” Somehow, following this, going back to Freddy’s seemed like more than a game. It felt right. “Let’s meet there at ten,” she said. “Hey, Jessica, can you catch a ride with the guys or something? I’m gonna go for a walk.”
“You can come with us,” Marla said. “I promised Jason I’d take him to the movies.”
Charlie headed down the road without waiting to hear the rest of the discussion. A dozen feet from the lot, she realized she was being followed. She turned around.
“John?”
“Do you mind if I come? You’re going to your old house, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“It’s the only interesting thing out this way. Anyway, I went to see my old place, too. It was pain
ted blue and there was a garden in the yard. It was weird. I know it wasn’t blue when I lived there, but I couldn’t remember what color it was supposed to be. Everything’s so different.”
Charlie didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure she wanted John to come with her. Her house, her father’s house, it was private. She thought of the first time John saw the toys, his fascination, an interest that was all his, that had nothing to do with pleasing her. She relented.
“Okay, you can come.”
“Is it…” he hesitated. “Is it different?”
“It’s really not,” Charlie said. It wasn’t quite true, but she wasn’t sure how to explain the thing that had changed.
They walked together for the better part of three miles, away from town and down old roads, first paved, then gravel. As they neared the place they left the roads, ascending the steep incline of a hill overrun with brush and trees that should have been trimmed or cut down ages ago. Three rooftops peeked over the leaves, scattered widely over the hill, but no one had lived in these houses in a long time.
At last they walked up the driveway, and John stopped short, staring up at the house.
“I thought it would be less intimidating,” he said softly. Impatient, Charlie took his arm for a second and pulled him away, leading them around the side of the house. It was one thing for him to be here with her, but she was not quite ready to let someone else inside. She was not quite sure she wanted to go inside again anyway. He followed her without protest, as if aware that they were in her territory, and she would decide where they went.
The property was large, more than a lawn. There were woods surrounding the wide space of the backyard, and as a child Charlie had often felt like she was in her own little realm, ruler of what little she surveyed. The grass had gone wild, weeds growing feral and up to their knees. They walked the perimeter. John peered into the woods, and Charlie was struck by her old childhood fear, like something out of a fairy tale: Don’t go into the woods alone, Charlotte, her father warned. It was not sinister, just a parent’s warning, don’t get lost, like telling her not to cross the street without holding someone’s hand, or not to touch the stove when it was hot, but Charlie took it more seriously. She knew from her storybooks, as all children did, that the woods contained wolves, and more dangerous things. She caught John’s sleeve.
“Don’t,” she said, and he pulled back from the woods, not asking why. Instead, he went to a tree in the middle of the yard, and put a hand on it.
“Remember that tree?” He grinned, something a little wicked in his voice.
“Of course,” Charlie said, walking over. “It’s been here longer than I ever was.” But he was looking at her, waiting for more, and suddenly she remembered.
It had been a sunny day, springtime; they were six years old, maybe. John was visiting, and they were playing hide-and-seek, half-supervised by Charlie’s father, who was in his garage workshop, absorbed in his machines. The door was open and he would notice if someone screamed, but short of that, the outdoors was their own. John counted to ten, eyes covered, facing the tree that was home base. The yard was wide and open, there were not many places to hide, and so Charlie, buoyed up by the excitement of the game, dared to hide beyond the forbidden edge of the woods, just barely past the tree line. John searched the other places first: behind her father’s car, in the corner where one part of the garage jutted out, the space beneath the porch where a child could just barely crawl. He realized where she must be, and Charlie braced herself to run as he began to walk the edges of the yard, darting into the woods and out again, looking behind trees. When at last he found her she took off, tearing across the lawn to the home-base tree. He was just behind her, so close he could almost touch her, and she sped on, staying just out of reach. She hit the tree, almost slamming into it, and John was right behind her, bumping into her a second later, too fast to stop. They were both giggling hysterically and then they stopped at the same moment, still gasping to catch their breath.
“Hey, Charlotte,” John said, stressing her name in the mocking tone he always used.
“Don’t call me that,” Charlie said automatically.
“You ever see grown-ups kiss?” He picked up a stick and started digging at the tree bark, like he was more interested in that, than in her answer. Charlie shrugged.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Wanna try it?” He still wasn’t looking at her; his face was streaked with dirt, like it often was, and his hair was sticking out in all directions, a twig caught in it above his forehead.
“Gross,” Charlie said, wrinkling her nose. Then, after a moment. “Yeah, okay.”
John dropped the stick and leaned toward her, his hands behind his back. Charlie closed her eyes, waiting, still not entirely sure what she was supposed to do.
“Charlotte!” It was her father. Charlie jumped back. John’s face was so close to hers that she banged into him with her forehead.
“Ow!” He yelled, clapping a hand to his nose.
Charlie’s father came around the side of the tree.
“What are you up to? John?” He pried John’s fingers away from his nose. “You’re not bleeding, you’ll be fine,” he said. “Charlotte, closer to the house please.” He then pointed his finger, directing them forward.
“John, it looks like your mom is here anyway.” He walked ahead of them, toward the driveway where her car had just pulled in.
“Yeah, okay.” John trotted off toward the driveway, turning once to wave at Charlie. He was grinning like something wonderful had happened, although Charlie was not quite sure what it was.
“Oh my,” Charlie said now, and covered her face, sure it was bright red. When she looked up again, John was grinning, that same satisfied, six-year-old grin.
“You know, my nose still hurts when it rains,” he said, touching a finger to it.
“It does not,” Charlie said. She leaned back against the tree. “I can’t believe you tried to kiss me. We were six!” Charlie stared at him accusingly.
“Even the littlest heart wants what it wants.” John said in a mock romantic voice, but there was an edge of something real in it, something not well enough hidden. Charlie realized, suddenly, that he was standing very close to her.
“Let’s go see your dad’s workshop,” John said abruptly, too loudly, and Charlie nodded.
“Okay.” She regretted it as she said it. She did not want to open the workshop door. She closed her eyes, still leaning against the tree. She could still see it; it was all she could see, when she thought of that place. The twitching, malformed, metal skeleton in its dark corner, with its wrenching shudders, and its blistering silver eyes. The image welled up in her head until it was all there was. The memory radiated a cutting anguish, but she did not know who it belonged to: to the thing, to her father, or to herself. Charlie felt a hand on her shoulder, and opened her eyes. It was John, frowning at her like he was worried.
“Charlie, are you okay?”
No.
“Yes,” she said. “Come on, let’s go see what’s in the workshop.”
It was not locked, and there was no real reason it should be, Charlie thought. Her eyes went first to the dark corner. The figure was not there. There was a weathered apron hanging in its place, the one her father had worn for soldering, and his goggles next to it, but there was no sign of that uncanny presence. Charlie should have felt relief, but she didn’t; only a vague unease. She looked around. There seemed to be almost nothing left of the workshop: the benches were there, where her father had assembled and tweaked his inventions, but the materials, the blueprints and the half-finished robots that were once crammed onto every surface had disappeared.
Where are they? Had her aunt had them carted away to a junkyard to rust and crumble among other discarded, useless things? Or had her father done it himself, so no one else would have to? The concrete floor was littered, here and there, with scraps: whoever had done the clean-up had not been thorough. Charlie knelt and picked
up an oddly-shaped scrap of wood, then a small circuit board. She turned it over. Whose brain were you? She wondered, but it did not matter, really. It was battered and worn, the etched copper too badly scratched to repair, even if someone wanted to.
“Charlie,” John said from across the workshop. He was in the dark corner; if the skeleton had been there, it could have reached out to touch him.
But it’s not there.
“What?”
“Come see what I found.”
Charlie went. John was standing beside her father’s toolbox, and he stepped away as she came over, giving her space. Charlie knelt down before it. It looked as if it had just been polished. It was made of dark, stained wood, glossy with some kind of lacquer. She opened it gently. Charlie picked up an awl from the top tray and held it for a moment, the rounded wooden handle fitting into the palm of her hand as if it had been made for her to use. Not that she knew how. The last time she had picked it up, she could barely fit her fingers around its base. She picked up the tools one after another, lifting them from their places. The toolbox had wooden spaces, carved out to fit the precise shape of each item. All the tools were polished and clean, their wooden handles smooth and their metal unrusted. They looked as though they had been used just that morning, wiped down and put away meticulously. Like someone still cared for them. She looked at them with a fierce, unexpected joy, as if something she had fought for was returned to her. But her joy felt wrong, misplaced: looking at her father’s things set her off-balance. Something in the world was not as it should be. Seized suddenly with an unfounded fear, she thrust the awl back into its place in the box, dropping it like something burning. She closed the lid, but she did not stand.
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