Cremated. Something clicked inside Jess’s head. That meant Leslie was gone. Turned to ashes. He would never see her again. Not even dead. Never. How could they dare? Leslie belonged to him. More to him than anyone in the world. No one had even asked him. No one had even told him. And now he was never going to see her again, and all they could do was cry. Not for Leslie. They weren’t crying for Leslie. They were crying for themselves. Just themselves. If they’d cared at all for Leslie, they would have never brought her to this rotten place. He had to hold tightly to his hands for fear he might sock Bill in the face.
He, Jess, was the only one who really cared for Leslie. But Leslie had failed him. She went and died just when he needed her the most. She went and left him. She went swinging on that rope just to show him that she was no coward. So there, Jess Aarons. She was probably somewhere right now laughing at him. Making fun of him like he was Mrs. Myers. She had tricked him. She had made him leave his old self behind and come into her world, and then before he was really at home in it but too late to go back, she had left him stranded there—like an astronaut wandering about on the moon. Alone.
He was never sure later just when he left the old Perkins place, but he remembered running up the hill toward his own house with angry tears streaming down his face. He banged through the door. May Belle was standing there, her brown eyes wide. “Did you see her?” she asked excitedly. “Did you see her laid out?”
He hit her. In the face. As hard as he had ever hit anything in his life. She stumbled backward from him with a little yelp. He went into the bedroom and felt under the mattress until he retrieved all his paper and the paints that Leslie had given him at Christmastime.
Ellie was standing in the bedroom door fussing at him. He pushed past her. From the couch Brenda, too, was complaining, but the only sound that really entered his head was that of May Belle whimpering.
He ran out the kitchen door and down the field all the way to the stream without looking back. The stream was a little lower than it had been when he had seen it last. Above from the crab apple tree the frayed end of the rope swung gently. I am now the fastest runner in the fifth grade.
He screamed something without words and flung the papers and paints into the dirty brown water. The paints floated on top, riding the current like a boat, but the papers swirled about, soaking in the muddy water, being sucked down, around, and down. He watched them all disappear. Gradually his breath quieted, and his heart slowed from its wild pace. The ground was still muddy from the rains, but he sat down anyway. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere. Ever again. He put his head down on his knee.
“That was a damn fool thing to do.” His father sat down on the dirt beside him.
“I don’t care. I don’t care.” He was crying now, crying so hard he could barely breathe.
His father pulled Jess over on his lap as though he were Joyce Ann. “There. There,” he said, patting his head. “Shhh. Shhh.”
“I hate her,” Jess said through his sobs. “I hate her. I wish I’d never seen her in my whole life.”
His father stroked his hair without speaking. Jess grew quiet. They both watched the water.
Finally his father said, “Hell, ain’t it?” It was the kind of thing Jess could hear his father saying to another man. He found it strangely comforting, and it made him bold.
“Do you believe people go to hell, really go to hell, I mean?”
“You ain’t worrying about Leslie Burke?”
It did seem peculiar, but still—“Well, May Belle said…”
“May Belle? May Belle ain’t God.”
“Yeah, but how do you know what God does?”
“Lord, boy, don’t be a fool. God ain’t gonna send any little girls to hell.”
He had never in his life thought of Leslie Burke as a little girl, but still God was sure to. She wouldn’t have been eleven until November. They got up and began to walk up the hill. “I didn’t mean that about hating her,” he said. “I don’t know what made me say that.” His father nodded to show he understood.
Everyone, even Brenda, was gentle to him. Everyone except May Belle, who hung back as though afraid to have anything to do with him. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but he couldn’t. He was too tired. He couldn’t just say the words. He had to make it up to her, and he was too tired to figure out how.
That afternoon Bill came up to the house. They were about to leave for Pennsylvania, and he wondered if Jess would take care of the dog until they got back.
“Sure.” He was glad Bill wanted him to help. He was afraid he had hurt Bill by running away this morning. He wanted, too, to know that Bill didn’t blame him for anything. But it was not the kind of question he could put into words.
He held P.T. and waved as the dusty little Italian car turned into the main road. He thought he saw them wave back, but it was too far away to be sure.
His mother had never allowed him to have a dog, but she made no objection to P.T. being in the house. P.T. jumped up on his bed, and he slept all night with P.T.’s body curled against his chest.
THIRTEEN
Building the Bridge
He woke up Saturday morning with a dull headache. It was still early, but he got up. He wanted to do the milking. His father had done it ever since Thursday night, but he wanted to go back to it, to somehow make things normal again. He shut P.T. in the shed, and the dog’s whimpering reminded him of May Belle and made his headache worse. But he couldn’t have P.T. yapping at Miss Bessie while he tried to milk.
No one was awake when he brought the milk in to put it away, so he poured a warm glass for himself and got a couple of pieces of light bread. He wanted his paints back, and he decided to go down and see if he could find them. He let P.T. out of the shed and gave the dog a half piece of bread.
It was a beautiful spring morning. Early wildflowers were dotting the deep green of the fields, and the sky was clean and blue. The creek had fallen well below the bank and seemed less terrifying than before. A large branch was washed up into the bank, and he hauled it up to the narrowest place and laid it bank to bank. He stepped on it, and it seemed firm, so he crossed on it, foot over foot, to the other side, grabbing the smaller branches which grew out from the main one toward the opposite bank to keep his balance. There was no sign of his paints.
He landed slightly upstream from Terabithia. If it was still Terabithia. If it could be entered across a branch instead of swung into. P.T. was left crying piteously on the other side. Then the dog took courage and paddled across the stream. The current carried him past Jess, but he made it safely to the bank and ran back, shaking great drops of cold water on Jess.
They went into the castle stronghold. It was dark and damp, but there was no evidence there to suggest that the queen had died. He felt the need to do something fitting. But Leslie was not here to tell him what it was. The anger which had possessed him yesterday flared up again. Leslie. I’m just a dumb dodo, and you know it! What am I supposed to do? The coldness inside of him had moved upward into his throat constricting it. He swallowed several times. It occurred to him that he probably had cancer of the throat. Wasn’t that one of the seven deadly signs? Difficulty in swallowing. He began to sweat. He didn’t want to die. Lord, he was just ten years old. He had hardly begun to live.
Leslie, were you scared? Did you know you were dying? Were you scared like me? A picture of Leslie being sucked into the cold water flashed across his brain.
“C’mon, Prince Terrien,” he said quite loudly. “We must make a funeral wreath for the queen.”
He sat in the clear space between the bank and the first line of trees and bent a pine bough into a circle, tying it with a piece of wet string from the castle. And because it looked cold and green, he picked spring beauties from the forest floor and wove them among the needles.
He put it down in front of him. A cardinal flew down to the bank, cocked its brilliant head, and seemed to stare at the wreath. P.T. let out a growl which sounded more like a purr. J
ess put his hand on the dog to quiet him.
The bird hopped about a moment more, then flew leisurely away.
“It’s a sign from the Spirits,” Jess said quietly. “We made a worthy offering.”
He walked slowly, as part of a great procession, though only the puppy could be seen, slowly forward carrying the queen’s wreath to the sacred grove. He forced himself deep into the dark center of the grove and, kneeling, laid the wreath upon the thick carpet of golden needles.
“Father, into Thy hands I commend her spirit.” He knew Leslie would have liked these words. They had the ring of the sacred grove in them.
The solemn procession wound its way through the sacred grove homeward to the castle. Like a single bird across a storm-cloud sky, a tiny peace winged its way through the chaos inside his body.
“Help! Jesse! Help me!” A scream shattered the quietness. Jess raced to the sound of May Belle’s cry. She had gotten halfway across on the tree bridge and now stood there grabbing the upper branches, terrified to move either forward or backward.
“OK, May Belle.” The words came out more steadily than he felt. “Just hold still. I’ll get you.” He was not sure the branch would hold the weight of them both. He looked down at the water. It was low enough for him to walk across, but still swift. Suppose it swept him off his feet. He decided for the branch. He inched out on it until he was close enough to touch her. He’d have to get her back to the home side of the creek. “OK,” he said. “Now, back up.”
“I can’t!”
“I’m right here, May Belle. You think I’m gonna let you fall? Here.” He put out his right hand. “Hold on to me and slide sideways on the thing.”
She let go with her left hand for a moment and then grabbed the branch again.
“I’m scared, Jesse. I’m too scared.”
“’Course you’re scared. Anybody’d be scared. You just gotta trust me, OK? I’m not gonna let you fall, May Belle. I promise you.”
She nodded, her eyes still wide with fear, but she let go the branch and took his hand, straightening a little and swaying. He gripped her tightly.
“OK, now. It ain’t far—just slide your right foot a little way, then bring your left foot up close.”
“I forgot which is right.”
“The front one,” he said patiently. “The one closest to home.”
She nodded again and obediently moved her right foot a few inches.
“Now just let go of the branch with your other hand and hold on to me tight.”
She let go the branch and squeezed his hand.
“Good. You’re doing great. Now slide a little ways more.” She swayed but did not scream, just dug her little fingernails into the palm of his hand. “Great. Fine. You’re all right.” The same quiet, assuring voice of the paramedics on Emergency, but his heart was bongoing against his chest. “OK. OK. A little bit more, now.”
When her right foot came at last to the part of the branch which rested on the bank, she fell forward, pulling him down.
“Watch it, May Belle!” He was off balance, but he fell, not into the stream, but with his chest across May Belle’s legs, his own legs waving in the empty air above the water. “Whew!” He was laughing with relief. “Whatcha trying to do, girl, kill me?”
She shook her head a solemn no. “I know I swore on the Bible not to follow you, but I woke up this morning and you was gone.”
“I had to do some things.”
She was scraping at the mud on her bare legs. “I just wanted to find you, so you wouldn’t be so lonesome.” She hung her head. “But I got too scared.”
He pulled himself around until he was sitting beside her. They watched P.T. swimming across, the current carrying him too swiftly, but he not seeming to mind. He climbed out well below the crab apple and came running back to where they sat.
“Everybody gets scared sometimes, May Belle. You don’t have to be ashamed.” He saw a flash of Leslie’s eyes as she was going in to the girls’ room to see Janice Avery. “Everybody gets scared.”
“P.T. ain’t scared, and he even saw Leslie…”
“It ain’t the same for dogs. It’s like the smarter you are, the more things can scare you.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “But you weren’t scared.”
“Lord, May Belle, I was shaking like Jello.”
“You’re just saying that.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help being glad she didn’t believe him. He jumped up and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go eat.” He let her beat him to the house.
When he walked into the basement classroom, he saw Mrs. Myers had already had Leslie’s desk taken out of the front of the room. Of course, by Monday Jess knew; but still, but still, at the bus stop he looked up, half expecting to see her running up across the field, her lovely, even, rhythmic run. Maybe she was already at school—Bill had dropped her off, as he did some days when she was late for the bus—but then when Jess came into the room, her desk was no longer there. Why were they all in such a rush to be rid of her? He put his head down on his own desk, his whole body heavy and cold.
He could hear the sounds of the whispers but not the words. Not that he wanted to hear the words. He was suddenly ashamed that he’d thought he might be regarded with respect by the other kids. Trying to profit for himself from Leslie’s death. I wanted to be the best—the fastest runner in the school—and now I am. Lord, he made himself sick. He didn’t care what the others said or what they thought, just as long as they left him alone—just so long as he didn’t have to talk to them or meet their stares. They had all hated Leslie. Except maybe Janice. Even after they’d given up trying to make Leslie miserable, they’d kept on despising her—as though there was one of them worth the nail on Leslie’s little toe. And even he himself had entertained the traitorous thought that now he would be the fastest.
Mrs. Myers barked the command to stand for the allegiance. He didn’t move. Whether he couldn’t or wouldn’t, he didn’t really care. What could she do to him, after all?
“Jesse Aarons. Will you step out into the hall. Please.”
He raised his leaden body and stumbled out of the room. He thought he heard Gary Fulcher giggle, but he couldn’t be sure. He leaned against the wall and waited for Monster Mouth Myers to finish singing “O Say Can You See?” and join him. He could hear her giving the class some sort of assignment in arithmetic before she came out and quietly closed the door behind her.
OK. Shoot. I don’t care.
She came over so close to him that he could smell her dime-store powder.
“Jesse.” Her voice was softer than he had ever heard it, but he didn’t answer. Let her yell. He was used to that.
“Jesse,” she repeated. “I just want to give you my sincere sympathy.” The words were like a Hallmark card, but the tone was new to him.
He looked up into her face, despite himself. Behind her turned-up glasses, Mrs. Myers’ narrow eyes were full of tears. For a minute he thought he might cry himself. He and Mrs. Myers standing in the basement hallway, crying over Leslie Burke. It was so weird he almost laughed instead.
“When my husband died”—Jess could hardly imagine Mrs. Myers ever having had a husband—“people kept telling me not to cry, kept trying to make me forget.” Mrs. Myers loving, mourning. How could you picture it? “But I didn’t want to forget.” She took her handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. “Excuse me,” she said. “This morning when I came in, someone had already taken out her desk.” She stopped and blew her nose again. “It—it—we—I never had such a student. In all my years of teaching. I shall always be grateful—”
He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to unsay all the things he had said about her—even unsay the things Leslie had said. Lord, don’t let her ever find out.
“So—I realize. If it’s hard for me, how much harder it must be for you. Let’s try to help each other, shall we?”
“Yes’m.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Maybe some
day when he was grown, he would write her a letter and tell her that Leslie Burke had thought she was a great teacher or something. Leslie wouldn’t mind. Sometimes like the Barbie doll you need to give people something that’s for them, not just something that makes you feel good giving it. Because Mrs. Myers had helped him already by understanding that he would never forget Leslie.
He thought about it all day, how before Leslie came, he had been a nothing—a stupid, weird little kid who drew funny pictures and chased around a cow field trying to act big—trying to hide a whole mob of foolish little fears running riot inside his gut.
It was Leslie who had taken him from the cow pasture into Terabithia and turned him into a king. He had thought that was it. Wasn’t king the best you could be? Now it occurred to him that perhaps Terabithia was like a castle where you came to be knighted. After you stayed for a while and grew strong you had to move on. For hadn’t Leslie, even in Terabithia, tried to push back the walls of his mind and make him see beyond to the shining world—huge and terrible and beautiful and very fragile? (Handle with care—everything—even the predators.)
Now it was time for him to move out. She wasn’t there, so he must go for both of them. It was up to him to pay back to the world in beauty and caring what Leslie had loaned him in vision and strength.
As for the terrors ahead—for he did not fool himself that they were all behind him—well, you just have to stand up to your fear and not let it squeeze you white. Right, Leslie?
Right.
Bill and Judy came back from Pennsylvania on Wednesday with a U-Haul truck. No one ever stayed long in the old Perkins place. “We came to the country for her sake. Now that she’s gone…” They gave Jesse all of Leslie’s books and her paint set with three pads of real watercolor paper. “She would want you to have them,” Bill said.
Jess and his dad helped them load the U-Haul, and noontime his mother brought down ham sandwiches and coffee, a little scared the Burkes wouldn’t want to eat her food, but needing, Jess knew, to do something. At last the truck was filled, and the Aaronses and the Burkes stood around awkwardly, no one knowing how to say good-bye.
Bridge to Terabithia Page 10