The Absence of Sparrows

by Kurt Kirchmeier

  I needed to confront him again, but I had to be careful. I couldn’t just ask him if he was having doubts, or tell him that there was still time to change his mind. I had to be cleverer than that. I had to offer him a way out that didn’t require him to admit that he might have been wrong in the first place.

  “I’ll challenge you for it,” I finally told him.

  I found him outside on the lawn, craning his neck toward a sky that looked like a liquid bruise and sounded like a steel bridge on the verge of collapse. It was impossible to get used to, that sound; my muscles instinctively tensed with every new creak. This was the loudest I’d ever heard it.

  “Challenge me for what?” Pete asked. The bags under his eyes looked even darker outside than they had in the house. His hair was a total catastrophe.

  “For Dad,” I told him. “Propeller leaves. If yours lands closest to the X, we’ll go through with the shattering. If mine does, we’ll wait.”

  He stared at me. “You’re serious,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  I nodded. It was the only idea I had.

  “Let’s let fate decide,” I told him. “Whatever is meant to happen, will.”

  He continued staring at me. “That’s crazy.”

  Invisible girders sagged above us. Crik… crik… crik… crack…

  We both looked up. We couldn’t help it. The liquid bruise continued to swirl. I imagined for a second that Pete and I were standing on Jupiter instead of Earth, gazing up at the gas giant’s big dark eye, watching it watch us.

  “Fine,” Pete said, his eyes still trained on the sky. “When?”

  I was so stunned that it took me a second to reply.

  “Right now,” I said, my heart already pounding in anticipation.

  “Okay,” said Pete. “Sure.” He seemed a little stunned himself, as if his mouth had made a decision before his brain had had a chance to think it through. “Should we tell Mom?”

  I shook my head. “I just need to get my shoes.” Pete already had his on, but I had come out in my socks. My foot had only just healed from stepping on the rake, but apparently I hadn’t learned my lesson yet.

  I ran inside and laced up, but not before grabbing the maple seedpod that I had saved from the day that old man Crandall turned to glass, along with the white chalk that we’d used to draw our last sidewalk X.

  Pete found his own maple seedpod along the way, neither one of us talking at all, just marching like a pair of soldiers toward our doom.

  FORTY-SIX

  Are you sure you want to do this?” Pete asked me.

  I stared down at the freshly drawn X inside a circle on the concrete below, only now fully appreciating what I was gambling on. What other choice did I have?

  I took a deep breath and nodded, the wind whipping my hair about my face. It seemed to be blowing from every direction at once, making it impossible to try to predict which way a seedpod might fall.

  Strangely, Pete didn’t seem worried at all. If anything, he just looked resigned, as if it didn’t matter who won, as if we’d both be losing either way, which maybe was true, although I was trying not to think like that. In spite of everything, I was trying to think positively.

  “I’ll go first,” Pete offered.

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh. We’ll both go at the same time.”

  Pete narrowed his eyes. “That’s not how we do it. You can’t just change the rules.”

  “It’s the fairest way,” I said.

  “How will we tell them apart?” he asked me.

  “I’ll mark mine with chalk,” I said.

  He looked at me uncertainly, and for the briefest of moments, a split second at most, I thought about pushing him, and imagined him going over the edge, his body landing flat on the X.

  “Fine,” he agreed. “Let’s just get it over with.”

  My seedpod was dry and fragile, so I had to be careful pressing down with the chalk. It didn’t help that I was nervous and shaking, too, but I finally managed to make a visible mark on the thickest part of it, where the seed itself was encased.

  “On three?” I said, leaning forward.

  “On three,” Pete agreed.

  We counted together: “One, two, three…”

  Our propellers were off and spinning, the speed of rotation immediately rendering my white mark invisible. Still, it was easy to tell them apart to begin with, as both of them spun away from each other, mine going north as Pete’s went south. Seconds later, however, they both changed course and crossed paths before getting caught in the very same eddy, which sent them around and around each other, too fast for my eyes to follow, and yet at the same time, eerily slow, like two ships caught in a whirlpool of molasses.

  I thought of Dad the entire time, remembering how he’d once told us that the most generous thing you could give to a person was your time. It seemed cruelly ironic to me that time was now the thing that Dad needed most.

  Down and down the seedpods went, and for a second it looked like both of them would land on the bull’s-eye, either right beside each other or right on top of each other, but then they collided, one of them falling just left of the center of the X and the other just to the right of it.

  Pete and I both leaned forward, squinting. I could just barely make out my white mark now, but it didn’t matter; it was too close to call from up on the roof.

  “Huh,” said Pete. “That’s never happened before.”

  The sky crik-crik-cracked as if in reply.

  We ran to the ladder and made our way down and around to the front of the shop. Pete stood on one side of the landing pad and I stood on the other, both of us bending over with our hands on our knees, the tops of our heads almost touching. I still couldn’t tell which of the seedpods was closest. Pete couldn’t either.

  “Let’s measure it in chalk lengths,” he suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  But before I could even get the chalk out of my pocket, the wind swirled again and picked up both of our seedpods, carrying them away along with a bunch of dry leaves and dust from the street. I squinted against the sudden onslaught of debris, my brain struggling to make any sense of what had just happened.

  “Now what?” Pete asked.

  “We’ll find new ones and go again,” I said.

  Pete looked down at the empty landing pad a moment longer and then slowly shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Why not?”

  “Fate was supposed to decide,” he replied. “But obviously fate doesn’t want to. We asked for an answer and never got one.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t ask again.”

  He looked at me, his eyes now filled with a peculiar sort of clarity, as if everything suddenly made perfect sense to him. “That’s just it,” he told me. “We should never have asked in the first place. This is way too big to just leave up to chance.”

  “So why’d you even come?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I guess I was confused. I guess I just needed to see what would happen.”

  I shook my head, the frustration I’d been feeling for days returning instantly. I was mad, too, not just at the fact that Pete wouldn’t try again, but also at his sudden certainty, as if the universe had just whispered wisdom into his ear when in reality the wind had thrown crap at him.

  “You’re still going to try to stop me, aren’t you?” he asked me.

  I crossed my arms but didn’t say anything, which I guess was answer enough.

  Pete sighed. “All you’re doing is making it harder on yourself. And harder on Mom, too.”

  “Someone needs to be on Dad’s side,” I said.

  “Dad’s gone, Ben, and he’s not coming back. It’s like when a cicada molts and leaves its old shell behind.”

  “If you really thought it was like that, then you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I was confused,” he said again. “I had a moment of weakness.”

  “But now you’re better,” I said sarc
astically.

  “I’m not gonna stand here arguing with you,” he told me. “I’m done, and I’m going home. Are you coming?”

  I shook my head. “Not with you,” I told him. There was no way I could walk beside him now, as if it were old times, and all we’d been doing was just hanging out together, talking about comic books and Star Wars beneath an innocent summer sky. We were on Jupiter now, I reminded myself, and my brother was no longer my brother. He was my enemy.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  As strange as it would seem to me later when I looked back on it, the day before the shattering was eerily calm, peaceful even.

  I held firm to my belief that the plan was wrong, and Pete remained convinced that it didn’t matter, that we had to go through with it anyway. It was our only option. Our lines had been drawn in the sand, and so tomorrow I would take my stand against my brother. Today, however, I would simply be there for Dad—not angry or desperate or frustrated (although I was all those things underneath), but simply present, a body in a chair beside another body in a chair.

  I thought again of our sparrows, and silently willed the universe to provide them with some direction, since the dreams that I’d been having seemed to be telling me they had gotten lost. I kept looking for them through the window, but so far all I’d seen were chickadees.

  Mom went out and filled the feeders just before lunch, pausing for a while at each one, her eyes scanning the trees and the bushes, her expression never changing, except once when the merlin flew over, as silent and deadly as she had ever been. Mom looked up and a small smile appeared. I think she was glad that her attack on the tree hadn’t had its desired effect. After all, the merlin was just trying to get by, like all of us were.

  The radio stayed off the whole day. I guess the voice meant for people to spend this time with their loved ones, to say good-bye, although I never asked and Pete never said. Pete wasn’t saying much of anything, but he did come down and sit with us for a while.

  Mom joined us as well, so that at one point we were all together at the same table for the first time since Dad turned to glass. Mom raised her hands and pressed them together, then lowered her head, apparently deciding that someone should finally finish what Dad had started before our last meal.

  “Thank you, Lord,” she began, “for the wonderful years that you’ve given us, for the joy and memories and all the laughter. We’ve truly been blessed. Thank you for letting me be here for Peter and Ben, and for giving us all the strength we need to get through this. Thank you as well for accepting Dean into heaven, and for keeping him safe there. I know that you’ll do the same for each of us when our time comes, so that one day we can all be together again in your light. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Pete and I both said, although I had never actually lowered my head and put my hands together. I wasn’t sure how I felt about giving thanks to a god who didn’t seem capable of helping us, who had left us to deal with everything on our own.

  We sat in silence for a while after Mom finished, and I watched as tears began to form in the corners of her eyes.

  “Your dad thought the world of you boys,” she said at length. “And your uncle Dean did as well. They were good men, both of them, and you will be, too. I guess in some ways you already are.” She sighed, as if troubled by this realization that our childhoods were over, which they definitely were.

  Pete and I didn’t say anything, just glanced sideways at each other, both of us knowing what was to come, but not what would follow.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The hands on the clock moved forward, while upstairs the voice droned on with what I assumed was probably an eleventh-hour call for resolve, and a reminder to all those who were listening that this might be our only shot, our one chance to shift the balance of power in our favor.

  The message was far too muffled for me to make out from my place in the dining room, but it was easy enough to imagine the words. I could feel them, too, their vibration spreading out through the floor and the walls, like a billion termites intent on bringing the house down around me.

  I sat at the table feeling strangely charged, as if I’d been soaking up pure electricity while I slept, in preparation for what was to come. I was surprised that I even had slept, but I guess sometimes the body just takes what it needs, regardless of whether or not the mind wants it.

  I had a weapon in the form of a thick piece of kindling on the table before me, one that I’d picked from my pile of firewood during the night. I wouldn’t use it unless I had to, but it was here for me if I did. I kept telling myself that Pete would back down once he saw how serious I was, once he realized just how far I was prepared to go in protecting Dad, but deep down I wasn’t sure that he actually would.

  Would there be a countdown? Would Pete have his stopwatch set to it?

  Maybe I could stall him long enough for the shattering to happen without him. Maybe I could hold him back until the sky went quiet and began to clear, offering proof that the plan was working without him, without Dad. But that was assuming that the plan even would work. I wasn’t sure about that either.

  I couldn’t sit still anymore. A surplus of nervous energy demanded that I get up and move. I walked over to the living room window and opened the curtains all the way, the dull gray light of the day washing over me.

  A big brown jackrabbit was on our lawn, munching on the stems of dandelions that had gone to seed. It darted away when it saw me, but it didn’t go far. It had been weeks since anyone had bothered to cut their grass, so there were dandelions everywhere.

  Mom quietly came into the room and stood beside me, saying nothing.

  I still wasn’t sure where she planned to be when the time for the shattering finally arrived. Asleep in her bedroom, I hoped, or at least upstairs, perhaps lulled into some half-conscious state by a silver tongue and a sea of static. Whatever happened, I didn’t want her to be right there to see it. I didn’t want her to have to remember, to relive it whenever her mind slipped into the past. As mad as I was at her, and as betrayed as I felt, I couldn’t help but worry about afterward.

  Mom followed my gaze to where the jackrabbit had relocated.

  “Oh,” she said, “look at that.”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply. All I could think of was a broken goshawk dying in a hole, its traitorous talons still grasping.

  We stood there in silence for what seemed like forever, until finally Mom took a deep breath and let it out slow. “I know it’s hard, Ben,” she softly said to me. “It’s the hardest thing ever. We’re going to be okay, though. I promise.”

  She gave my arm a gentle but reassuring squeeze.

  Not all of us, I thought. Not if you and Pete and most of the world get your way. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at her.

  She left the room as quietly as she had come in, but not before going over to kiss Dad on the forehead, which brought tears to my eyes, and made me wonder how love and betrayal could occupy the very same space at the very same moment, like two particles somehow defying the laws of the universe.

  The clock on the wall kept ticking, the seconds and minutes turning into hours. One o’clock soon became two o’clock; two o’clock soon became three.

  My hands were sweating, my heart pounding in anticipation.

  Pete didn’t come out of our room until just a few minutes to four. By then I had flipped the table over and turned it up on its side, rotating the entire thing so that Dad was behind it. I had moved the chair and the couch as well, ensuring that if Pete were to reach Dad, he would first have to get through me.

  Pete came down the stairs carrying a hammer, the same black-and-green one that I’d watched Dad use to build a birdhouse for Mom last spring. The birdhouse was hanging up in the backyard, from a tree near the bushes along the fence. Mom’s sparrows had claimed it almost immediately after it was put there.

  Pete’s eyes were so red he almost looked like a zombie. His body was tense, his mouth a grim line. He paused when he saw me standing there wit
h my thick chunk of kindling.

  “Get out of my way, Ben,” he said, his voice profoundly tired yet resolute.

  I looked at the clock again, saw that it was 3:58 p.m. on the nose. “You’re early,” I told him.

  “I figured it would take me a couple of minutes to talk some sense into you,” he replied.

  “I’m not moving,” I said, taking a step toward him, my heart doing double-time in my chest, crashing against my rib cage like something trapped and trying to break out.

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” he warned me. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want this to all be over. Aren’t you tired, Ben? Haven’t you had enough?” His fingers tightened on the grip of the hammer.

  If someone had asked me a few minutes earlier, I would have said that I was positive Pete wouldn’t hit me with something like that, something that could fracture a skull or break a bone clean in half, but I was beginning to have doubts. There was something in my brother’s eyes that I didn’t like. A glint that reminded me of Mom with the chain saw.

  I felt a moment of genuine fear, but then something inside me shifted, displacing the fear with anger. My body went from being a vessel for anxious energy to something combustible, something that might explode if placed too close to a fire.

  Pete glanced down at his watch and then up at me. “I don’t have time for this, Ben,” he said.

  I just set myself square in his path.

  “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.” And then he charged, faking left before going right. It was a move that I knew had fooled numerous goalies over the years, which was how I anticipated it.

  I dropped into a crouch and surged forward, dropping my weapon as I tackled Pete around the waist. We both went crashing over the arm of the couch and onto the floor, where I managed to grab Pete’s shirt and pull it over his head so that he couldn’t see—another trick I’d learned from watching hockey.

  He swore and let go of the hammer, freeing both of his hands up to wrestle me off him. I saw the hammer bounce off the living room carpet and then heard it clatter to a stop on the linoleum in the dining room.