The Singing Bone (6 page)

“If nothing else.”

Soon, even when Trina was around, he started saying,
When we're in California—
not
if—
which made Alice happy.

  •  •  •  

Stuart's feet kept slipping into the soft, spring earth. He was sure they'd hear him and that any minute Molly would turn and yell at him, “Why are you following us, you little brat? Go home!” And she'd stand there waiting, hand on hip, until he turned around and made his way back through the woods.

He could see them up ahead, his sister laughing with Stover. Molly grabbed Stover's arm and one of Stover's feet flew out from beneath him, and then Molly nearly went down. Alice walked alone, her hands in her jacket pockets, her face turned up towards the sky. Trina had her arm around a boy he'd never seen before, and who were the other two? Something about them made Stuart nervous—the woman's hair looked tangled, like she'd slept in a pile of leaves, and the man seemed so serious, like one of the
Starsky and Hutch
bad guys.

That was Stu's favorite show—that and the episodes of
The Night Stalker
he'd watched with Molly when he was little. Stuart hadn't been allowed to watch it—he'd only been six—but Molly had gotten him out of bed and they'd watched it together under an old knitted blanket their mother had made. Molly made a show of pulling the blanket over her eyes, so Stuart did the same thing, but if he started laughing too loudly, Molly put a finger to her lips:
Shhh! Mom and Dad will hear.
They'd had a game, too: Stuart was Kolchak and Molly the vampire. The game consisted of hiding behind furniture and creeping silently around the house until one of them jumped out at the other and they both screamed.

So Stuart followed his sister and her friends Kolchak-style—dodging behind trees and keeping a good distance. Maybe the man was a werewolf—or a vampire. Stu would have to save everyone. First he'd save Alice, then Molly. Alice was nicer to him than Molly was. Or maybe he should save Molly first because that's what his parents would want. He'd worry about Trina and Stover after that, but he kind of thought Trina could take care of herself, and Stover, well, he was tall and a guy. Stuart stood behind a tree and plotted. If Trina knew how to fight, she could karate-chop the strange man, and Stu could run in to tie his hands up. Stover could tackle the other guy and then run for help. Molly would never be mean to him again. Alice would be his girlfriend.

But they didn't look like they needed his help. If he suddenly ran up and tried to tackle someone, he would never hear the end of it. He hung back. His Adidas were soaked in muddy water, and as the day began to close around him and grow colder, Stu wished for warmer socks. He wanted to go home, to trace his steps back around the reservoir. He could run—run through the woods and back across the field where he'd first seen them—and maybe get home before night completely settled. That's what he'd have to do. Mom would have dinner and she'd say something like “Stuart Malloy, where have you been?” when she saw his mud-covered sneakers.

Stu knew one of Trina's brothers, Ali. How cool was that? Stu wished his name was Ali—but
Ali Malloy
sounded sort of lame. Ali Malik. There was a name. Ali was tall and quiet and serious. Stu wanted to talk to him about their sisters, but he had a feeling Ali would look at him like he was weird—
Why would you follow your sister?
—and then look past him like he'd already forgotten Stu said anything. Trina had another brother, too, who was strangely just called Scott, but he was behind Stuart in school.

It wasn't the first time Stu had followed Molly and her friends. He was prepared. He had his dad's flashlight in his back pocket. He had a roll of Smarties in his front pocket and a Snickers bar wedged in his back pocket in case he got hungry. He usually went home long before Molly did. If his mom couldn't find him, she panicked. Not so much as before, but still. His mom was always telling him to get home before dark, and if he wasn't, when he got up to the house, he'd see all the lights on and his mom standing at the back door with her arms folded. It wasn't fair, he thought, that Molly never invited him anywhere. If Molly said, “Stu's coming with us, Mom,” no one would worry. Eleven was not exactly a baby. Eleven was not like ten. Everyone knew that.

When Molly and her friends got to the edge of the woods, Stu watched from behind another tree until they disappeared over a slight hill. When he thought it was safe, he crept out and found himself in a small orchard. On the other side of it, Stu saw a tall wooden farmhouse, like the kind his mother always pointed at when they drove into Connecticut for Molly's ballet classes, saying, “Isn't that pretty?” But it was gray and looked like no one really lived there. The front porch was partly caved in.

Stu didn't dare go any closer. He had a funny feeling in his stomach that wasn't hunger and wasn't sickness. The wind crept up. The sharp crack of a tree branch breaking and falling in the woods behind him made him jump, and before you could say
boo
, Stu Malloy was off and running back the way he'd come. He didn't care how much noise he made. He didn't like the woods in the dark.

  •  •  •  

The sun was low and the earth was warm. Alice liked the woody smell of trees, the sound of the wind, and the deep blue of the coming night. She tried to decipher the joke that Molly and Stover shared, their laughter catching her attention.

Alice looked up and saw a big clapboard farmhouse with chipped white paint and ivy growing up one wall. There were cars in the front yard, propped on cinder blocks, their hoods open. The front porch sagged and a step was broken, and Allegra said “Careful” in a way that sounded bossy to Alice, who didn't even step on it.

Inside, Mr. Wyck lit candles. They burned on a wax-laden mantelpiece and in old wine bottles set on the hearth. He made a fire for them to sit in front of while he and Allegra got dinner ready. He brought them big glasses of red wine. He covered them with patchwork quilts. Smiling down at Alice, he said, “Tired?” and she nodded drowsily up at him, taking a sip of her wine.

They sat on two frayed couches—Lee and Trina nestled together on one, and Stover, Molly, and Alice on the other. They sat like good children, sipping their wine and waiting. Every once in a while, Trina murmured to Lee, or Lee to Trina, or Molly coughed. She had asthma, and Alice knew the smoke from the fire was bothering her.

“Do you have your inhaler?” Stover asked, and Molly nodded.

“Bring me my purse?”

It was like that for Stover—with three female best friends. He was the one who had to go out for munchies.
Pleeaassse?
they only had to ask, and especially if it was Trina asking, Stover would do it.

Stover rose to get Molly's purse and Trina got up, too, unconcerned. He looked at Trina with a question, but she patted him on the head and passed into the dining room, where they heard the table being set a moment later. Stover handed Molly her purse.

Molly's swift inhale caught Lee's attention. He turned to her, studied her face, and said, “You really don't need that.”

“I really do,” Molly said.

“Allegra can show you roots that will help. I bet you could get off that thing.”

“Roots?”

“Yeah. You can dry them and mash them into teas. Herbal medicine.”

Molly didn't say anything, but she and Alice looked at each other. Alice mouthed
Roots?
and Molly smiled. They rose to find Trina and when they walked into the dining room, they saw the table set, with a tarnished candelabra, lit with glowing red candles, at its center.

“Don't you have electricity?” Stover asked.

Mr. Wyck didn't answer, so Stover started to ask it again, but then Mr. Wyck said, “When I want it.” Stover nodded and dropped into a chair.

“That's Trina's seat,” Allegra said. Stover rose and backed up a little, wedging his tall, thin frame in between an antique sideboard and a cupboard. Trina smiled apologetically at Stover and took the chair. Lee sat down beside her.

Alice didn't see how it mattered where they sat. The table was large and round and even if they all changed seats they'd still be able to see one another and talk. She sat next to Lee, and Molly sat next to Trina, and Stover sat next to Molly, Allegra next to Stover, and Mr. Wyck, watching the others, finally sat down beside Alice. The stew was hot. There were no cubes of meat in it, though there were carrots and potatoes and onions. There were other vegetables, too, and seasoning that Alice had never tasted before. Allegra said she'd spent the day making the bread, and when Alice took the basket from Lee, she could feel how heavy the slices of brown bread were. She put one on her plate and passed the basket to Mr. Wyck, who placed his hand over hers for a moment. He was telling Lee that the apple trees would bloom soon, and when Alice looked at Mr. Wyck's face, there was nothing there that said
I am touching your hand for a moment too long, Alice
. He simply let go and took a piece of bread.

“So, Allegra,” Molly said, “Lee says you know all about herbal medicine.”

“A little,” she answered, looking at Mr. Wyck.

“Oh, not just a little!” Lee said. “She knows a lot. Like how you balance your elements. If you are a cold person, you take hot foods, and if you are a hot person, you take cold foods.”

“What am I?” Molly asked. “A cold person or a hot person?” She smiled.

Allegra looked again at Mr. Wyck, who leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Then he opened them and looked up at the ceiling, smiling. “Molly,” he said. “You are a perfect person. You can eat whatever you want.” His teeth were large and white.

“She is perfect,” Trina said. “Look how pretty she is.” Trina lifted Molly's hair in her hand. “It's like a cloud. So pretty.” Trina didn't usually talk that way.

Molly leaned away. “Quit,” she said. “I am not perfect.”

“How long have you all known one another?” Mr. Wyck put his elbows on the table. “If it's a long time, you will find as you get older that you will always know one another better than anyone else.”

“Since we were kids.” Stover put his hand out to show how tall they were when they met. “Little.”

Trina put her hand lower. “Babies, even. Forever.”

“That's a lot of history. Do you all know pretty much what one another is thinking? Are you connected?” Allegra pulled her long black hair over one shoulder and lit a cigarette. She passed the pack around the table.

“Connected?” Stover asked.

“Like twins,” Allegra explained. “You know how if one gets hurt the other one feels it? That kind of thing.”

“Is that true?” Alice asked.

Allegra nodded. “There was something in
Psychology Today
about it,” she said.

“I guess. Sometimes,” Molly said. “Like if Alice is upset about something, I totally know. I can usually guess what it is, too.”

“What does Alice get upset about?” Mr. Wyck looked from Molly to Alice, but neither of them answered. Alice flushed and Molly shook her head and shrugged. “That's called empathy,” Mr. Wyck said. “When we're upset about something, it's because we're holding on to things, collecting, if you will, emotions and thoughts. Say you have something that belonged to someone else and whenever you look at that thing, you feel sad. You don't know why, but it's because you're absorbing fear and pain.” He touched Alice's hand again, but this time she had it under the table and she almost jumped, because she was thinking of her mother and the narrow hallways filled with other people's belongings, filled with sorrow. His voice was so soothing—listening to him was like following a path. “No one should ever give you her fear and pain,” he said. “Never.” He squeezed Alice's hand once and then let it go.

Allegra sighed. “You said it, baby.”

Mr. Wyck laughed. “Tell me.” He leaned forward, looking at each of them in turn. “Do you know what each of you is really good at?”

“Oh my god, yes,” Trina said. “Molly's crazy creative. She can dance and sew and do hair. And Stover can play the guitar and fix shit. Like you've got a bike and the brakes are crap, Stover can look at it and know what needs work.”

“You,” Molly said, looking at Trina. “People love you. They want to look at you and talk to you. You are mysterious and beautiful.”

“What about Alice?” Mr. Wyck asked, looking at her. “What's Alice good at?”

Alice liked it when Mr. Wyck said her name. Like Dan, he made it into something different. Was he handsome? She couldn't decide. Hadn't she read, in one of Molly's magazines, that beauty could be measured by the evenness of one's features? She'd looked at her face in the mirror for days after reading that, wondering if her eyes were perfectly parallel, if her nose were straight and her mouth centered just below. She remembered her doll's faces: the round, rolling, long-lashed click of the lids over the eyes, the slightly turned-up nose, the tiny pink sweetheart mouth. Molly's face, certainly, had that quality, but with her own it was hard to know. She'd wanted to ask, but it was a strange thing to ask someone. Are my features even?

Mr. Wyck's features weren't even. His eyes sat too close together, she thought, and nestled in the sockets below, the skin held that unearned darkness. A thick crease of worry beset the bridge of his nose, and when he turned his chin up, she saw that his nose was crooked. Perhaps it had been broken? She wanted to ask him for the story. Maybe he'd turn his gaze fully upon her as he had earlier, when she'd fought the urge to look away, as if whatever fire made him go was too bright. He squints, she thought, but the jaw, that was solid. Square, with the unintentional beginnings of a beard. When he listened, he sometimes rubbed the rough stubble, one elbow resting on the table, his mouth slightly open. His lower lip was full and soft, but his upper was thin, like a taut bow. His hair was closely cropped, light colored, but decidedly brown. She was surprised it wasn't long—all the men wore it long—but then Mr. Wyck did things his own way.