by Diane Adams
Neal stood and faced his mother, his fingers curled into fists of frustration. Angry words were exchanged until the young woman held out her arms for a final hug. "I just wanted to tell you good-bye," she said sadly.
Neal turned and fled across the neatly mown lawn, into the club house his dad had built when he was a boy. He sat down on a large rock and removed his glasses, carefully wiping the lenses with the hem of his T-shirt. He would not cry! He would be strong and brave, like his father had been before he was killed at the World Trade Center on 9/11.
A car started and Neal froze. His mother was leaving for California, to stay with her parents until she could begin to heal. Neal was a miniature version of his father. She couldn't take him along without being reminded of the tragedy every time she glanced in his direction.
Neal would remain in Missouri, with his father's parents. His mother hoped he could comfort his grandparents as she could not. Neal wondered why no one seemed to think he needed to be comforted. Was it supposed to be easier to lose your father than your husband or your son?
What if she never came back? What if he was stuck here forever, with two people he barely knew? They were too formal and polite. How had his dad turned out to be so friendly and so much fun after growing up with such serious parents? There were pictures of his father scattered all around the house, but his grandparents never mentioned him. Were they pretending he was still alive?
They hadn't come to New York after 9/11. They never saw the ruins of the skyscrapers that made it impossible to pretend.
Neal replaced his glasses and stood up, gazing out the door of the clubhouse. On the other side of a cornfield, he could see the tall house that belonged to the neighbors his grandmother described as 'strange.' Their clothing was out of style, their car was old and spotted with dents. They were friendly to everyone, like small children who don't know any better.
Mr. Cameron spent most of his time working in a garden that was hidden behind a tall privacy fence. Mrs. Cameron spent most of her time on the third floor balcony, watching him. No one understood how they could afford to buy the old Templeton place. Some suspected they had won a lottery. They seem the type to gamble, Neal's grandmother had sniffed with disapproval.
Their granddaughter lived with them, though no one knew why. Rose was an odd child, given to outlandish behavior, and Neal was advised to avoid her. On the other side of his grandparents' house was a subdivision where plenty of 'normal' children lived. Go and make friends with them, his grandfather had suggested.
Neal wasn't sure whether his behavior had ever been described as 'outlandish,' but he knew it wasn't 'normal' either. He was curious about the Camerons - was it possible that they were criminals? Maybe the girl wasn't really their granddaughter. Maybe they had kidnapped Rose and were holding her for ransom. Maybe that's how they got the money to buy the old Templeton place - kidnapping children for a ransom. While he was here, he would keep an eye on these strange neighbors, watching for questionable activity. If he saw the girl with ropes tied around her wrists or a chain fastened to her ankle, he would think of a way to rescue her. Maybe if he could become a hero, like his dad, his mom would come back for him.
Neal stretched out on the floor of the clubhouse with his hands pillowed behind his head. He imagined himself far into the future, after he was grown up. He wouldn't go to college or have a career and he wouldn't get married or have kids. Maybe he wouldn't even have any friends. He would travel, never remaining in one place for more than a few weeks. People would ask his mom where he was and she would have to say, 'I don't know! He keeps disappearing!' He would wander around the world, doing odd jobs for people, making just enough money to buy food and a new pair of shoes now and then. He wouldn't even tell anyone his real name. After a while, he would probably forget his real name.
He heard a whirring noise, and lifted his head to look out the door. There was something suspended there, something so white, it was nearly iridescent. It was bobbing up and down, as if it were on a string. Neal sat up, to get a better look, and it immediately disappeared.
"What was that?" he asked aloud, fascinated, in spite of himself.
It was probably some kind of small bird that only lived in the Midwest. Maybe he should go inside and ask his grandfather if he'd ever seen a bird like that. Maybe he would find his mother sitting at the kitchen table, chatting with his grandmother. 'Oh, Neal!' she would say. 'I turned around and came back. You didn't unpack yet, did you? I want you to go with me after all.'
Neal got up and dusted off the back of his jeans. If he promised to be careful, maybe his grandfather would allow him to borrow the binoculars that hung on a hook in the study. He could keep an eye out for the bird, and keep an eye on the Camerons at the same time.
He found his grandfather in the living room. He stood before him and described the bird in a scientific manner, then waited politely for his grandfather to comment.
The elderly man scratched his head with a perplexed expression. "A bird might stray out of its normal range, or be blown off course. Given its size, it could be a hummingbird. Pure white? Maybe an albino hummingbird? I don't know, Neal. I'm no ornithologist."
Neal's grandmother had come to the door to listen. "There are some nature books upstairs," she told him.
"They were your father's," his grandfather explained, staring hard at the newspaper he had folded across the arm of the chair. "There might be a bird book among them."
"Be sure your hands are clean, so you don't dirty the pages," his grandmother cautioned.
"And be careful with the binoculars," his grandfather added.
Neal went to the kitchen and washed his hands, then went upstairs into his dad's old bedroom. Without looking around too much at anything else, he chose four books from the bookcase. Fetching the binoculars, he returned to the clubhouse. He sat cross-legged on the floor with one of the books spread opened across his knees. He turned the pages slowly, studying the pictures, making a note of any bird that was very small or colored with large areas of white. Maybe it wasn't a small bird, he decided after a while. Maybe it was a large insect.
He trained the binoculars against his eyes, slowly turning his head as he scanned the treetops. All he saw were grey squirrels and brown sparrows. Finally he ventured out of the clubhouse and wandered around the yard, moving slowly and quietly.
Just when he was ready to give up and go inside, there it was again! He stood perfectly still, wishing he could catch it. It was bigger than a bug, but smaller than a bird, and incredibly white.
His grandmother called that dinner was ready, and the tiny creature flew off.
Neal wondered what it would be like to be the sort of boy who didn't go in when he was called. He could disappear into the woods behind the clubhouse and hike off into the wilderness. His grandparents would get frantic when it grew dark and he still hadn't come back. They would call his mother on her cell phone and she would wonder if something bad had happened to him. She would feel guilty for leaving him behind and immediately return to join the search. When he finally allowed himself to be found, she would tell him how sorry she was that she hadn't taken him with her to California.
Neal went to the clubhouse and gathered the books. He wondered whether his father had ever seen a little white bird, or bug, and if he had persuaded his parents to buy the books so that he could try to identify it. The thought brought him some comfort.
(( 2 ))