by Diane Adams
"It's gone," Neal said with certainty. "Like it wasn't ever there. Your grandpa must've filled it with putty or something."
"Maybe you aren't looking in the right place," Alex argued, staring up and down the fence line, searching for the hole.
The garden was enormous and so was the corn field - it was impossible to be sure if they were standing in the exact same spot as the day before.
"I've gone all the way up and down this side," Neal insisted. "I've been out here since seven this morning, trying to find it."
"I hope my grandfather didn't see you," Alex said. "It would really hurt his feelings."
"I wasn't looking at his dumb garden," Neal said angrily. "I just want to see that moth again."
"It's not a moth, it's a bird," Alex said, glancing at Rose for agreement.
Rose was seated on an enormous rock, staring down a long row of corn stalks at Neal's grandparents' house. She didn't seem to be paying attention to what they were saying.
"It was a moth," Neal said. "I saw it a bunch of times yesterday. You only saw it once, for about two seconds."
"Rose!" Alex demanded. "Are you even listening?"
"Sure," Rose said agreeably.
Alex and Neal frowned at each other over the top of Rose's head.
"How come you aren't talking?" Neal asked.
"I guess I don't have anything to say." Rose pointed her finger between the rows of corn. "I figured out what I'm going to paint."
"What?" Alex and Neal asked together, staring in the direction she was pointing.
"If you sit on this rock, and look through the corn field, you can just see the corner of Neal's house."
"You're going to paint the corner of Neal's house?" Alex said with a confused expression.
"It's not my house," Neal grumbled. "It's my grandparents' house."
"Who does the flowers?" Rose asked him. "It's like an English garden. It's got so many colors! Magenta and fuchsia and coral and mauve."
"Fuchsia?" Alex repeated. "What color is fuchsia?"
"Sort of a purple-pink," Rose said.
"My grandma planted the flowers," Neal said with a touch of interest. "My mom said she couldn't believe she works in the garden in a good dress. She wears gloves, of course, but even so ..." He stooped beside Rose and tried to see what she saw.
"Did she do it before or after your dad ..." Alex slapped her hand over her mouth.
Neal swallowed hard. He tried to remember whether the flowers had been there when his parents went to the marriage seminar.
"Don't you think it would make a good painting?" Rose asked.
"I don't know," Neal said, straightening up and pacing along the edge of the cornfield. "Are you supposed to be an artist or something?"
"I'd like to be. I got all this stuff for my birthday - an easel and paints and brushes and paper, but I've been too scared to try it."
"What's so scary about trying to paint a picture?" Alex said. "If it doesn't turn out good, you just throw it away."
"I thought I might have a gift for it," Rose tried to explain. "You know how Meemaw is always saying the secret of happiness is discovering your gift and putting it to good use? I thought painting might be my gift."
"How come you changed your mind?" Neal asked, trying to understand.
"I didn't," Rose told him. "But if I actually try to paint something, then I'll know for sure whether or not I have that gift. And if I don't, I'll have to start all over with some other gift, like writing poetry, or building bridges, or baking homemade bread."
Neal grinned, and then he laughed. "Building bridges?" he teased.
Rose shrugged, not at all offended.
"You said you didn't believe what Meemaw said," Alex reminded her. "You said you know plenty of people who don't have a gift."
"I changed my mind," Rose said. "I think a lot of people just don't ever figure out what their gift is. Maybe that's what makes them so unhappy." She got up and started towards the house. "I'll be back," she promised. "I'm just gonna get my painting stuff."
"That's nice," Alex sighed. "She's going to paint ... what are we supposed to do? Stand around and watch her?"
Neal sat down on the rock and stared down the row of corn stalks. The beautiful flowers planted beside the house were changing his feelings about his grandmother. It didn't seem like either of his grandparents really cared that his dad had been killed. They never talked about him, or about the fateful day when America was so brutally attacked. It was like his dad had never existed. But maybe his grandma did think about her only son. Maybe she just didn't talk about him because it made her feel too sad.
"First Rose quits talking, now you're doing it," Alex complained.
Neal stared at her, as if he didn't see her. "Sorry," he said finally. "I have a lot on my mind." He stood and brushed his hair back and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "I wonder if Rose has sketch pads and pencils."
"Meemaw has a ton of craft stuff in one of the closets upstairs," Alex remembered. "I'm sure there are drawing pads and pencils, from when we were younger."
Neal hadn't brought any of his own art supplies along. He hadn't felt much like sketching since his dad died.
Alex led the way back to the house. "I try to let Rose be the one to choose what we do when I'm here," she explained. "My parents say it's nice of me to be so patient with her. They say it's a help to the grandparents."
"Yeah. They probably get tired of trying to cheer her up all the time."
Alex stopped walking. "When I'm at school, I'm a natural leader. My friends are always asking me what to do and they like to check with me before they make any big decisions. But when I'm with Rose, I have to be a different person. Do you know what I mean?"
Neal smiled and raised his shoulders.
"I feel sorry for her," Alex tried to explain. "Especially now, since her mom's in the hospital. But still ..."
"I guess it's sort of hard being her cousin."
"It is," Alex said with obvious relief. "Even if I know it isn't fair that so many bad things happen to her all the time and nothing bad happens to me. You know?"
"No," Neal said soberly. "I'm kind of in the same boat with Rose at the moment."
"Sorry," Alex mumbled.
Neal made a face. "It's not like she's a bad person or anything. It's not like it's her fault."
"It would be a lot easier to understand if the bad stuff only happened to bad people," Alex said.
"But it doesn't," Neal said firmly, thinking of his dad. "Bad stuff happens to good people too." He took his glasses off and polished them on the hem of his T-shirt, though he had cleaned them only moments before.
"Do you draw pretty well?" Alex asked him.
"I used to," he said without modesty. "I haven't tried in a long time."
"It's probably like riding a horse," Alex speculated. "Once you learn how, you never forget."
"Have you ever ridden a horse?"
Alex shook her head. "But who knows - it might turn out to be my gift. Do you think drawing is your gift?"
"My dad used to say I had a natural talent. Do you think that's what Mrs. Cameron means by a 'gift?'"
"It sounds like the same thing."
Neal wondered what Rose would say, if she saw that he was genuinely talented. He understood why Alex thought it was hard being her cousin. He rolled his eyes skyward, then crossed them and stuck out his tongue.
Alex covered her mouth with both hands as she laughed.
Then Neal started laughing too, even if he didn't know what he was laughing about. If Rose felt jealous of his talent and it made her give up her dream of being an artist ... there was nothing funny about that.
He looked at Alex and saw that her eyes were watering from laughing so hard. He liked knowing he had caused her to laugh. He remembered how his dad liked to try and make him and his mom laugh. He decided right then that he was going to try to be more like his dad - saying and doing silly things to make people laugh. Maybe it would turn out to be his gift.