Secret Brother (5 page)

“Now? Now he tries?”

“What else can he do for—” She stopped herself and turned away, but she didn't have to finish her sentence. It was one of those sentences that finish themselves, like a launched rocket you couldn't turn back.

“For Willie,” I muttered. “What else could he do for him? He could think of nothing and no one else but him, just like me.”

“I know. Did the boy say anything to him?”

“What difference does that make?” I snapped back at her.

She bit her upper lip as if to keep herself from saying another word.

“No. He didn't speak to anyone. He was in something they called a semicoma. He looked awake, but he also looked like he didn't see or hear a thing.”

“Who poisoned him?”

“I don't care!” I got up and went to the window to look down at people coming and going. “My brother is dead,” I said. As I looked down at the wide driveway and the area for cars to park, I could envision Willie down there trying so hard to master riding his bike. He had wanted to feel older and independent. He had wanted to be able to ride his bike to the convenience store, buy something, and come back. And he had wanted to go on longer rides with me as soon as Grandpa decided he was good enough.

“Everyone in our class is calling me to ask if they should come over to see you. Some said they'll come over with their parents today,” Lila said. “Whoever can will come to the funeral.”

When I didn't speak or turn from the window, she continued, “Everyone really likes you, Clara Sue. We know Aaron Podwell really does,” she added, hoping to somehow slip back into one of our secret talks about the boys we thought were good-looking. No matter what homework we were doing together, our attention always rushed to the subject of boys now, boys in the twelfth grade, too, and the dreams we had about them. We hadn't been friends that long, but we were growing increasingly comfortable talking about our own sexual fantasies.

Lila was a little more physically mature than I was, with bigger breasts and a more dramatic rear end. She had started getting her period just after she was eleven. I didn't get mine until I was almost thirteen. For her, all this interest in sex and boys was much easier. She
still had a mother who would talk to her about these things and an older sister, now a freshman in college. I really had only Myra, who, even though I loved her like a grandmother, was someone I felt embarrassed talking to about such things. She had described her own mother as “queen of the prudes.” She said she wouldn't be caught dead buying herself sanitary pads. Myra's older sister, Kate, had to take care of it. I certainly wouldn't run to Myra with questions about boys and how far you should go or, more important, how you could stop.

“Aaron?” I said now. The moment I uttered his name, I felt guilty about even thinking of him. How could I care about anything as unimportant as good-looking boys? Tomorrow was my brother's funeral. Again, it irked me that if I felt this way, how could Grandpa be spending so much time on a stranger right now?

“Yes, he called me asking about you,” Lila said, eager to get me on the topic. I couldn't blame her.

“That's nice, but I can't think about him. I should be talking to my grandfather about Willie's funeral,” I said. “He probably is wondering why I'm not.”

“Oh.”

“Let's go back down. I can't run away from anything, even though I want to so much that it makes my head spin.”

“I'm so sorry, Clara Sue. I'll be right beside you all the time. I told my parents I would stay home from school if you needed me the rest of the week.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She rose, and we hugged. Then I took her hand, and we returned to the living room, where people had gathered. Grandpa was sitting in his favorite chair and talking softly with some people. Uncle Bobby saw us and immediately crossed the room.

“Your other grandmother is arriving in an hour. I'm going to pick her and her sister up at the airport. Do you want to go along?” He looked at Lila. “Your friend could come with us if she would like.”

I glanced at Lila. We were good friends now, but I could see that this was going to be a little too much sharing, asking her to be there to greet another grieving grandparent.

“That's all right,” I replied for her. “Lila will come back later or see us tomorrow. Her parents are coming to the funeral.”

“Oh, yes, for sure,” she said eagerly.

“Has Grandpa given you any details about . . . ?” I asked Uncle Bobby. I couldn't finish the question, but it was obvious what it was.

“He said he would talk to us after I bring—”

“My other grandmother back, I know,” I said, and he finally did smile. I turned to Lila. “Her name is Patricia Sanders, and her older sister's name is Sally. My grandfather likes to call them two peas in a pod.”

Lila nodded. She still had both sets of grandparents. Her Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays would always be better than mine. A family was like a fortress, I thought. When one important member died, there was a big hole through which ­everything bad could have an easier time getting to you.

“Okay, let's go,” Uncle Bobby said. “You want a ride home?” he asked Lila.

She looked at me. “No, I . . . rode my bike here,” she said, as if riding a bike was forbidden not only to do but also to mention since Willie's accident.

“Okay. Clara Sue?”

I looked toward Grandpa to see if I should let him know I was going with Uncle Bobby, but he was too involved in a conversation to notice anyway. We all walked out together. Lila got onto her bike and started away. Uncle Bobby and I got into Grandpa's car, and we started for the airport.

“I guess there is one thing I should tell you, Clara Sue. My father just told me. Maybe it will make you feel better.”

“What?” I asked, like anything could possibly make me feel better. The only thing would be his saying it was all a mistake. They were looking at the wrong boy in the hospital. Willie was fine.

“My father's hired a private detective to find out who the boy is, who dropped him off, and where his family is. Once that's known, he'll be returned to his family, I'm sure. Maybe he had been kidnapped or something.”

I really tried not to be interested in him, but the idea that he had been kidnapped and then poisoned was enough to divert my attention for a while.

“He said that was why he went to the hospital, to meet with his detective and make sure all was being done medically for the boy.”

“Oh.”

“So I wouldn't think about it much anymore,” he added, and smiled at me. “My father likes to take charge of everything around him. Believe me, I know. I bet you know that, too.”

“Yes.” I didn't want to admit it, but what he was telling me was making me feel better. Maybe now all we would think about was Willie.

My grandmother Sanders was crying as she got off the plane. Her sister dabbed at her eyes the same way. When they saw me, they only started to cry harder.

Uncle Bobby put his arm around my grandmother, and then both she and my great-aunt Sally hugged me to them.

It occurred to me that I was really the one they wanted to comfort the most. My parents weren't here to comfort me, and neither was Grandma Arnold. I was sure they couldn't envision themselves doing much to comfort my grandfather. He was never very close to either of them. If anything, I thought they were afraid of him.

Uncle Bobby took their overnight bags, and the four of us walked out to Grandpa's car. They sat in the back, and although I could tell they didn't want to, they asked questions about the accident. Then my grandmother said what I thought was an odd thing. She said, “I bet Myra wishes it was her instead.”

“No,” Uncle Bobby said softly. “She wishes it was no one.”

Neither my grandmother nor my great-aunt said anything else about it. My great-aunt started asking me questions about school as if nothing terrible had
happened. My answers were short, almost impolite. I was actually happy to get home, even though the house was full of people paying their respects and offering their sympathy, some bringing their sons and daughters, who looked even more uncomfortable than I did.

My grandmother Sanders and her sister went directly to speak with my grandfather and hug him. He looked very stiff about it, and moments later, Myra was taking up all their attention.

“I hope they're not making her relive the accident,” Uncle Bobby told me.

We watched her lead them off to the guest bedrooms. I thought I might return to my own room, but my grandfather caught my attention.

He said something to Uncle Bobby, who came to me and said, “We're going to my father's office to talk about tomorrow.”

He put his arm around me quickly, and we left the living room. Moments after we sat on the dark brown leather settee, Grandpa and Mrs. Mallen came into the office. My grandmother Sanders and my great-aunt Sally had been summoned. Grandpa went behind his desk, and Mrs. Mallen began to rattle off the details from a clipboard. I had my head down the whole time.

Mrs. Mallen was saying that my brother's little body was in a coffin in a funeral parlor. She described the coffin and how Willie was dressed. Dressed? I hadn't seen anyone go to his room to get his clothes. She mentioned that a story about the accident was in
the
Prescott Gazette
and that the article also included details about the funeral. I looked up once at the door, imagining Willie popping his head in and laughing about the trick he had pulled on everyone. But that didn't happen. That or anything like it would never happen again.

We all did look up when Myra entered. I could see she was upset about not being included. Before she could say anything, my grandfather said, “I was hoping you went to take a bit of a rest, Myra.”

“There'll be plenty of time to rest, unfortunately, Mr. Arnold,” she replied. “Right now, I'm sure Clara Sue needs to know what to wear tomorrow.” She looked at me.

I hadn't even given a thought to that. I was too afraid to let myself think about it. Of course, I needed Myra to help me decide. What if I wore the wrong thing and brought embarrassment to the family? I could have asked my grandmother Sanders to help, but I was actually closer to Myra. As Grandpa Arnold said, I'd seen my grandmother Sanders mostly only at funerals these past years. When she had realized that Willie and I would be brought up here, she seemed to drift away from us.

Right now, she sat quietly, dabbing her eyes and shaking her head. She held her sister's hand. Seeing them like that brought tears to my eyes.

“Okay,” Grandpa said.

“We'll work on it after dinner, Clara Sue,” Myra told me.

I didn't say anything, but I felt Uncle Bobby's
hand on my arm. We looked at each other, and he gave me a small, soft smile.

Mrs. Mallen recited the schedule for us all, and then she left to talk with Myra and My Faith about arrangements for tomorrow's after-the-funeral party, as she called it. Grandpa Arnold sat back. He was looking at us, but it was more like he was looking through us.

“Is there anything else you need done, Dad?” Uncle Bobby asked him.

“No, I don't think so, Bobby, thanks.”

“Okay. I think I'll just go up to take a shower and get some rest.”

“Sure.”

“You should, too, Dad.”

“I know.”

Uncle Bobby rose and looked at me. “And so should you,” he said.

“Yes,” my other grandmother followed. “It's harder on young people than they think.”

“I will,” I promised, and watched Uncle Bobby leave. I always liked watching him move, even if it was only to cross a room. He seemed to float. Grandma Arnold used to call him her Fred Astaire. I had to watch some old movies to see exactly who that was, but once I did, I was fascinated. Even Willie would sit still and watch the dancing, both of us thinking about Uncle Bobby.

My grandmother Sanders and her sister followed him out, claiming they also needed a good rest, after the trip and all.

“If you need us to do anything . . .” my grandmother Sanders told my grandfather.

“Thank you, Patricia. Go rest,” he told them. After they left, he turned to me. “Sorry I haven't been able to spend more time with you, Clara Sue,” he said. “I'm glad Bobby's here. He's very fond of you.”

“And I'm fond of him. Willie loved him.”

Grandpa nodded. “The poisoned boy,” he said.

“What about him?”

“I'm working on finding out where he came from and who's responsible for what happened to him.”

“Hasn't he said anything?”

“No. I've had them bring in a neurologist to examine him. The boy seems unable to speak right now.”

“Just like Willie,” I said, my eyes burning. “Just like Willie. Only . . . unless you're Jesus, you can't do anything for him.”

I left quickly and didn't look back.

3

Maybe my grandfather had said something about me to everyone, but as soon as I woke up in the morning, I was the center of attention. I could see it in the way everyone was looking at me, catering to me. It was more important for me to have something in my stomach than it seemed to be for everyone else. As far as I could tell, except for my grandmother Sanders and my great-aunt Sally, no one had more than a cup of coffee. The night before, Myra had lingered over every item of clothing I was to wear, as if choosing the right socks was as critical as any decision the president would make. I knew she was just trying to distract me from thinking about what this all meant, but I couldn't help feeling that all eyes would be on me for the whole funeral.

I sat between Grandpa and Uncle Bobby in the limousine. My grandmother Sanders and my great-aunt sat across from us, both sobbing softly, sighing, and looking away from me. Uncle Bobby held my
hand all the way to the church, but Grandpa sat stone still. I hadn't said much to anyone, even Myra. At the moment, I hated the sound of my own voice. Every time I spoke, my throat ached.

It was still very warm for this time of the year. At least there were clouds to interrupt the sunlight; today the sun felt more like a spotlight in one of Uncle Bobby's stage shows. We passed the small park near the school, and I saw about a dozen mothers with their children, all screaming and laughing around the swings and seesaws. I wanted to lean out and shout, “How dare you have fun today?”

It wasn't until we entered the crowded church and I set eyes on the coffin that I felt as if my body was disappearing. I was shrinking inside myself. I tried not to look back at anyone who was looking at us. I was holding on to both Grandpa's and Uncle Bobby's hands, but Uncle Bobby seemed to sense what was happening to me faster than my grandfather did, maybe because Uncle Bobby was so in tune with how people moved. He let go of my hand and quickly put his arm around my shoulders. No one knew it, I think, but he was actually holding me up until we got to our seats.

My grandpa sat with his head down most of the time, clasping his hands so tightly that his knuckles turned white. When he did raise his head, he looked at Willie's coffin and then looked down again, shaking his head slightly. The only part of the sermon and the eulogy that I heard was Willie's name. Otherwise the words just flowed past my ears. I wouldn't let any
of them in. As I sat there, I knew the worst part was yet to come. This part seemed more like a show with a coffin for a prop, and the church choir and the minister were more like actors. We were simply all part of the performance.

But at the most beautiful cemetery in the whole state of Virginia, it was like a sledgehammer struck me in the heart and broke the dam that held back my tears. I cried so hard and continuously that Grandpa nodded at Uncle Bobby, who then hugged me closer in his arms and finally practically carried me back to the limousine. I think the sight of me crying hysterically did more to raise the sobs and moans of everyone else than the sight of Willie's coffin hovering over a perfectly shaped grave.

I collapsed in the car and fell asleep for a few minutes against Uncle Bobby's shoulder. I kept thinking about Grandma Arnold saying that Uncle Bobby had “angel feet.” Now Willie did, too. I dreamed instead of arriving at the house and seeing Willie out front, smiling impishly as he often did and saying, “Ha-ha, joke's on you.”

After we arrived at the house, Lila and some of my other classmates came up to my room to be with me. No one really wanted to be there. I didn't want to be there, but they all tried to help me. Finally, with no more tears left in my well of sorrow, I suggested we go downstairs and have something to eat.

“Before some of my grandfather's friends gobble it all up,” I added, which finally brought smiles.

It was My Faith who said that the week after such
a sad funeral was “like the days after a tornado.” My grandmother Sanders and her sister left the morning after, inviting me to visit whenever I liked. I had never done it when Willie was alive. I couldn't imagine doing it now. They hugged and kissed me and then left quickly, like two people fleeing a fire. I couldn't blame them. Everyone remaining moved about as if they were still stunned, poised to see more suffering. People did not raise their voices very much. Looks and gestures replaced words. Silence seemed soothing.

That was with the exception of Grandpa Arnold. Getting back to work and working even harder was his way of dealing with our tragedy. He was out of the house before I had even risen to get dressed. Uncle Bobby stayed another day and a half. Before he left, he came to see me. I knew, of course, that he couldn't stay with us long. He wasn't being selfish by thinking of his work and his career. He was, like everyone else, trying to survive in a flood of sorrow.

“Hey, Clair de Lune,” he said as he came into my bedroom. I was beginning something that I didn't know whether I could finish or continue. I was writing my first letter to my brother, Willie, in heaven. I think I was terrified of the possibility that I would soon forget him or stop thinking about him. I knew Grandpa didn't stop thinking about my mother or my grandmother, but he very rarely mentioned their names. That was why I had been so surprised to hear him say that Grandma Arnold had told him to take care of the poisoned boy.

“Hi,” I said. From the way Uncle Bobby was
dressed, I knew he was minutes away from leaving. “Going?”

“Yes, but I'll be calling you and writing to you. I'll send you a playbill from the show I'm in now. You know what that is, right? I mean, it's not really a bill, it's—”

“I know what it is,” I said, smiling. It felt good to smile. I knew it was part of what would bring me back, even though a bigger part of me wanted never to come back. That part wanted to stay with Willie.

“Good. So . . . you'll return to school on Monday?”

“I guess so. My friend Lila has been helping me keep up with the classwork.”

“Best thing you can do, although I know it won't be easy, maybe not for a long, long time. Whenever I saw you two together, you were more like a mother to him than an older sister.” He paused and shook his head. “Of course, you would be, having lost your mother, but other girls might have withdrawn completely into themselves. You're a great kid, Clara Sue.”

I nodded. I knew Uncle Bobby meant it all as a nice thing to say and not to get me crying again. I could see, however, that he had something else on his mind. He had the look of someone debating with himself whether he should speak. He looked away and pressed his lips in and out.

“How's Grandpa?” I asked, as a way to help get him to talk. “I didn't see him this morning.”

“He's Grandpa,” he said, smiling. “He won't show it, but I know he's struggling. You have to wonder
how I could be his son. There I was when I was your age, bawling like a baby at the sight of a dead butterfly. It still makes my eyes tear to see beautiful things die. Your grandfather is just one of those guys who cry on the inside and not on the outside. He's also one of those guys who use anger to overcome sorrow.”

“Getting his revenge,” I said, nodding.

“Right.”

“Has he said any more about the poisoned boy?” I could sense that this was really what he was holding back.

He nodded. “Thing is, he received a report from the private detective concerning him.”

“He's going home?” I asked quickly, hoping this was the end of it.

“No. The detective has apparently run into a dead end.”

“What's that mean?”

“My father's exact words were ‘Whoever the man was, he had dropped the boy off like a bag of plague and then hightailed it into the shadows like a ghost.' There wasn't even a decent description of him. He wore some kind of hat and kept his collar up. His height and all that were too vague to draw a picture. Not much to go by. The boy had nothing on him that would identify him. Basically, my father's given up on the private detective for now. Of course, the police are still involved.”

“But he's still visiting him every day, isn't he? That's probably why he leaves so early.”

Uncle Bobby nodded.

I thought about it. “Isn't there some kind of child protection service that takes over?” I didn't want to tell him that I had asked Lila to ask her father about it. Her father was a corporate attorney for a company that had something to do with supplying the Navy with things, but I thought an attorney was an attorney and should know something about other legal things. He didn't know all that much, but he had mentioned a government agency.

“That's just it. Dad doesn't want this little boy to get ‘lost in the system,' as he puts it. I waited to see if he would tell me that my mother had whispered in his ear, just what he had told you, but he didn't mention it. Shows how he trusts you, cares about what you think, more than he does me.”

“Well, what's he going to do now?”

“He's still looking after the boy's medical needs. He's even hired a psychiatrist to work with him. The boy remains in serious condition, something to do with his motor skills.”

“Motor skills?”

“His legs, mainly. Your grandpa says he's improving, but he has a ways to go yet. I'm just telling you all this so that you'll know he's still deeply involved,” he added quickly. “As I said, I think it helps him to care about someone that helpless.”

I wanted to say that I was helpless, too, and that Willie was beyond helpless, but I didn't. I just nodded.

“You know your grandfather,” Uncle Bobby continued. “When he gets on something with any determination . . .”

I nodded again. I remembered my grandmother saying that when Grandpa made his mind up about something, he looked like a bulldozer couldn't move him. “I swear,” she had told me, “sometimes I believe he has tree roots growing out of his soles.” She would get angry about it and tell him he was as stubborn as a corpse, but I remembered that most of the time, she was proud of how determined he could be whenever he decided to do something he thought was right, especially something good for the family. She said he made her feel safer and more secure than anyone she had ever known, even her own father and mother.

“Whatever strength this family has now,” Grandma Arnold had told me sometime after my parents had died, “comes from those roots coming out of his soles. Don't tell him I said so,” she'd whispered afterward. “He doesn't need to have his ego blown up any more, or he'll be even more impossible to live with.”

She had laughed just the way someone who declared she would swear off chocolate would, knowing in her heart that she would violate her own pledge. No one could brag about or compliment my grandpa as much as she did, and she knew it. Later she would confess, “You don't stop eating chocolate, no matter what oath you swore.”

“Anyway, don't spend any time worrying about it, Clara Sue,” Uncle Bobby said now. “Everyone has his or her own way of grieving. Let it play itself out. I know I'm going to dance harder, work harder. What I mean is, don't let the grieving overtake you and prevent you from being who you are. I know you
take pride in everything you accomplish in and out of school. Now you can tell yourself you're doing it all for Willie, too.”

“Okay.” Those all-too-familiar tears were returning. Would they always be there, just appearing willy-nilly? Who would want to be around me?

Uncle Bobby came over to hug me and kiss my cheek. “Maybe you can come see me in one of my shows,” he said. “There's a good chance I'll be back on Broadway this coming year. You'll be able to stay with me, and I'll show you around New York. How's that?”

“If Grandpa lets me. Sometimes I can even hear the chains rattling.”

He laughed. “I know. We'll get Myra to agree first, and if necessary, we'll invite her along,” he said.

He started out but stopped, thinking for a moment in the doorway. Then he turned back to me.

“Look after him, Clara Sue. He's more lost than you think,” he said, and left.

Was he right? I could only think back to how my grandfather had acted after my parents were killed and then after Grandma Arnold's passing. Both times, he was the one taking care of everyone and everything with such authority. I did feel safer. Was the loss of Willie greater to him than I thought it was? Perhaps he'd had high hopes for Willie and even envisioned the day when he would begin to work in the business, something Uncle Bobby never did. Now that was gone. What did he have left? Millions of dollars? A beautiful estate? A thriving big business?

And memories captured and locked away in pictures. How often must he look up at Grandma Arnold's portrait in his office and ache? How empty were his nights? Nowadays, I was tempted each morning to stay in bed forever. How did he manage to get himself up? Where did he find the energy and the desire?

I decided to be less intolerant of the attention he was giving the poisoned boy. I didn't like it any more than I had yesterday, but perhaps once he saw to it that the boy was restored to health, he would surely move on to other things. He'd probably help find a new home for him. I was used to the idea of my grandfather having influence on many things besides his own business interests. He knew so many politicians. There was once talk of him running for mayor of Prescott. He could even call the governor if he wanted.