The Color of a Dream (2 page)

Awkwardly we placed Francis in the trunk and
Rick covered him with the green plaid blanket my father always kept
on hand in case we got stranded in a snow storm.

“Stop crying,” Rick said as he shut the
trunk. “It’s over now and we can’t do anything to change it.”

I felt the other guys staring at me as if I
was a wimp, but I didn’t care. I opened the car door and got into
the front seat, forcing the other three to pile into the back
together. I’m sure they weren’t happy about it, but they had the
sense not to object.

Before Rick got in, he went around to the
front of the car to check for damage.

“How’s it looking?” Jeff asked when Rick got
in.

“The fender’s dented.”

“At least it’s just the fender,” Greg
replied. “You won’t even need to tell the insurance company. You
can just hammer that out.”

Rick started up the engine. This time, he
drove slowly as he turned up our driveway and began the long
journey up the hill.

I could barely think. I felt like I was
floating in cold water, bobbing up and down while waves splashed in
my face. I had to suck in great gulps of air whenever I could.

At last we reached the house and everyone
got out of the car. I have no memory of the next few minutes. All I
recall is sinking down onto the cool grass in our front yard next
to Francis while Rick stood over us.

“We have to go,” he said. “When Dad gets
home, make sure you tell him it was an accident and that Francis
came out of nowhere.”

“But he didn’t,” I replied.

“Jesus, he was running like a bat out of
hell.”

He was just excited to see us, I thought, as
I ran my hand over Francis’s smooth coat.

“You
better
tell him it was an
accident,” Rick warned me as he returned to the car, “because you
were there, too, and this wouldn’t have happened if you
weren’t.”

“I told you to slow down,” I insisted.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“It’s your word against mine,” Rick said,
pausing before he got into the car, “and I have witnesses. On top
of that, I’m pretty sure you were the last one to leave the house,
remember? Mom’s always telling you to shut the back door.”

It wasn’t true. I hadn’t left the door open.
I was waiting in the car when Rick came out with his gear slung
over his shoulder, running late as usual.

I couldn’t wait to tell my father the whole
story when he got home. And I was going to tell the truth, whether
Rick liked it or not.

I’d always suspected that Rick was my
father’s favorite. He was his firstborn child after all, my
father’s namesake—though my father went by Richard.

When you compared Rick and me, I realized it
must have been difficult for my mother to pretend I was as special
as him because he excelled at everything he did. He was good
looking and popular, he played a number of sports equally well, and
he possessed a fierce charisma that seemed to put most people in
some sort of hypnotic state. Every other person in a room seemed to
disappear when Rick walked into it. All eyes turned to him and
everyone was mesmerized. He knew all the right things to say,
especially to grownups, and everyone who met him was suitably
impressed.

‘You sure hit a home run with that boy,
Richard,’ friends of my father would say when they came over to the
house—or ‘He’s going to be a heartbreaker,’ women said to my mother
at the supermarket.

I suppose I was invisible in the glare of
such perfection, but to be honest, I didn’t mind because I was a
bit of an introvert, which was why I didn’t go seeking a spotlight
by trying out for sports teams or running for student council. I
was quite content to sit quietly in the corner of a room while Rick
carried on conversations or told stories that made everyone
laugh.

Naturally he was voted most likely to
succeed during his senior year of high school—which turned out to
be a good prediction because he ended up working in LA as a sports
agent, earning millions from celebrity clients.

But that came much later. I shouldn’t be
skipping ahead when you probably want to know what happened when my
parents came home and found me huddled in the front yard with
Francis in my arms.

It was dark by the time they drove up the
tree-lined drive. I should have at least gone into the house to get
a warmer jacket at some point, because it was late November in
Connecticut and near the freezing point on that particular day
after the sun went down. But I didn’t want to leave Francis, so I
sat there shivering in my light windbreaker until the car
headlights nearly blinded me.

My mother was first to get out of the car.
“Oh my God, what happened?” She strode toward me and crouched down,
laid her hand on Francis’s shoulder.

“Rick hit him with the car,” I explained as
my father approached. He’d left the headlights on.

My rage had been boiling up inside me for
nearly two hours and I’m not sure what I sounded like. I think I
might have achieved more if I’d remained calm and rational, but I
was fourteen years old and didn’t possess Rick’s clever way with
people.

“He murdered him!” I shouted.

“Who murdered who?” my father asked with
growing concern.

“Rick killed Francis. He drove right into
him, even when I told him not to.”

“That can’t be true,” Mom said, looking up
at my father who glared down at me with derision. “Rick loves
Francis. He would never do something like that. Certainly not
intentionally.”

“You’re not making any sense, Jesse,” my
father said in his deep, booming voice. “You’re upset, which is
understandable, but accidents happen.”

He knelt down and stroked Francis’s head.
“Poor boy. How long ago did it happen?”

“A couple of hours,” I replied.

“And you’ve been out here with him all this
time?” my mother asked, laying a sympathetic hand on my cheek.

I nodded, grateful for her gentle warmth in
light of my father’s severity.

She looked down at Francis and rubbed his
side. I could see her eyes tearing up.

“Did he suffer at all?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “It happened
really fast. As soon as we got out of the car, Rick said he was
dead.”

My father’s eyes lifted and he regarded me
from beneath those bushy dark brows. “How did he get loose? Did you
leave the door open again?”

“No! I swear I didn’t! It was Rick! It had
to have been.”

My parents exchanged a look and I knew they
didn’t believe me.

“Well,” my mother said gently, “whatever
happened, we can’t change it now and we can’t bring Francis back.
This was a terrible accident, Jesse, but you mustn’t punish
yourself. It’s no one’s fault.”

Why did everything seem to think it was
me
? That
I
was the one who had something to answer
for?

“Yes, it
is
someone’s fault,” I
argued. “It’s Rick’s, because he was driving.”

“Now, see here,” my father scolded. “I won’t
hear talk like that. If Francis got out of the house, it could have
happened to any of us. It was an accident and if I hear you say
otherwise to your brother, you’ll have to answer to me. He must
feel guilty enough as it is. Do you understand?”

“But it
was
his fault,” I pleaded.
“He was driving too fast and I told him to slow down but he
wouldn’t.”

My father’s eyes darkened. “Did you not hear
what I just said to you?”

I’d been raised to respect and obey my
father—and to fear him. We all did, even Mom. So I nodded to
indicate that yes, I’d heard what he said.

That didn’t mean I had to believe he was
right.

Rick didn’t come home that night. He slept
at Greg’s so it was left to me to help Dad bury Francis at the edge
of the yard under the big oak tree. My mother suggested the spot
because it was visible from the top floor windows of the house, and
I agreed it was the right place.

It was ten o’clock by the time we finished.
I was so exhausted afterwards, I went straight to bed, but I hardly
slept a wink all night. What happened that day had been a terrible
ordeal and I couldn’t stop replaying all the vivid images in my
mind: Francis bounding down the hill to greet us; the sound of our
car striking him; then finally the eerie sight of my father
shoveling dirt on top of him while I held the flashlight.

I imagined we must have hit Francis in the
head with the car, which was why he died so quickly. At least, if
that was the case, he probably felt no pain.

That thought provided me with some comfort,
though I couldn’t overcome the white-hot rage I felt every time I
remembered how Rick stood over me in the yard blaming me for what
happened.

That perhaps was the real reason I couldn’t
sleep. My body was on fire with adrenaline, and I wanted to hit
something.

I woke late the next morning, having finally
drifted off into a deep slumber sometime before dawn. Sleepily, I
rose from bed, used the washroom, and padded downstairs to the
kitchen in my pajamas.

“Mom?”

My voice never echoed back to me in the
kitchen before and the implications of that fact caused a lump to
form in my throat.

“Mom? Dad? Is anyone here?”

When no answer came, I went to the front
hall and looked out the window. Both cars were parked in the
driveway, which meant Rick had come home.

“Rick?” I climbed the stairs to check his
room, but it was empty and the bed was made.

Suddenly it occurred to me where everyone
must be and a feeling of panic swept over me. I hurried to the
window in Rick’s room, which looked out over the back field and
apple orchard, and sure enough, there they were, my mother, father
and Rick, all standing over Francis’s grave.

I had no idea what was going on out there,
but I felt very left out. Without bothering to get dressed, I
hurried downstairs, pulled on a pair of rain boots and a jacket,
and ran out the back door.

* * *

It was not one of my finer moments. I will
admit that. When I reached my family, I shouted at all of them
accusingly.

“What are you doing out here? Why didn’t you
wake me?”

My mother turned and looked at me with
concern. “You seemed so tired last night, Jesse. I thought you
could use some extra sleep.”

“If this is Francis’s funeral,” I said, “I
should be here.”

“It’s not his funeral,” my father informed
me, impatiently. “Rick just got home and he wanted to see where we
buried Francis.”

“He was my dog, too,” Rick said with a
frown, as if I was being selfish.

Maybe I was, but I was only fourteen and I
was grief-stricken and angry.

“Come here,” Rick said, holding out his hand
to wave me closer.

I slowly approached.

“I was thinking,” Rick said, “that we should
get some sort of monument. Maybe a small headstone. I have enough
in my savings account to pay for it.”

“That would be a fine gesture, Rick,” my
father said, “but please let me cover the cost.”

Rick laid a hand on my shoulder. “What do
you think we should have engraved on it?” he asked. “His name of
course, but maybe we should come up with some sort of epitaph.”

I thought about it for a moment. “What
about: Here lies Francis, beloved dog and best friend?”

My voice shook and I didn’t think I could
speak again without breaking down.

“That sounds perfect,” Rick said. He looked
down at me meaningfully. “I’m really sorry, Jesse. I don’t think
I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.”

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of
his nose, as if he, too, could not speak about it anymore.

My father squeezed his shoulder and patted
him on the back.

Five years later

“Hey, Bentley. Where’s your leash?”

Bentley’s head lifted, his ears perked up
and he jumped off the sofa in the family room. I rose from my chair
at the kitchen table and headed for the laundry room. With tail
wagging, Bentley followed me in.

Dad waited only a month after we lost
Francis before coming home one afternoon with a brand new puppy—an
adorable black lab I fell in love with at first sight.

From that moment on, Bentley and I were best
pals. He formed a closer bond with me than anyone else because both
my parents worked and I was the first one home every afternoon to
take him for a walk. I made sure his food and water bowls were
always full in the mornings, and he slept on the floor in my room
on a large green pillow. I loved him dearly.

After attaching the leash to Bentley’s
collar, I led him out the front door. While I stood there locking
the door behind me, I heard a car speed by on the road at the
bottom of the hill. A few years earlier, a crew had come in and
paved the road all the way to the next town, so we now had a
steadier stream of traffic moving at a faster clip in front of our
house. In addition to that, a number of new homes had gone up since
the paving project was announced. We were no longer the only house
between the main road and the bootlegger’s shack—which as far as I
knew was still there.

There had been other changes to our lives as
well. Rick graduated from high school with honors and received a
scholarship to UCLA. He was still there, living out west, working
on an MBA.

As for me, I was still living at home,
working at the airport as an operations assistant until I figured
out what to do with my life. My father wanted me to enroll in a
science program and go to dental or medical school. I certainly had
the grades for either of those options, but I just wasn’t that keen
on following in my father’s footsteps. We were different, he and I,
and I wanted to choose my own path. Maybe it would have something
to do with aviation. I’d always had an interest in that. I just
wasn’t sure yet.