Bird Lake Moon (9 page)

Now it was Spencer's turn to say sorry. He chewed on his lower lip and stared at the reflection of the bright blue sky that surrounded him. Concentrating. There were so many wrinkles on the surface of the lake it looked like a bedsheet in the morning. Spencer couldn't imagine his parents getting divorced. That seemed worse to him than the death of a brother you didn't remember.

“At school last year my teacher was divorced,” said Lolly. “But she has a new friend now—she told us. And she got to keep her dog.” Lolly turned a circle. Her ears stuck out of her slicked-down hair like pale half-moons. “If we ever got divorced, I'd get to keep Jasper.”

This was a ridiculous statement, and yet Spencer said, “No,
I
would.”

“Jasper likes me better,” said Lolly.

“That is such a lie,” said Spencer. He splashed his sister. Right in the face.

She splashed him back. Then Mitch splashed both of them. In no time at all, they were wrapped up in another boisterous game, and Spencer was laughing so hard he'd temporarily forgotten about his mother keeping watch on shore.

“It's getting darker and darker,” said Lolly, now folding and unfolding a dish towel in a fretful manner. “I hope the dear boy gets here soon.”

A disturbance arose. The low clouds moved fast, like rolling clumps of steel wool. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled. The wind flared up, stirring the trees. Next, a downpour. And then a brisk rapping on the front door.

Spencer saw Mitch through the window, and saw Mitch's mother, too, lagging behind him, gripping a lavender flower-patterned umbrella. The umbrella seemed to have a mind of its own, pulling this way and that way, shooting up, then dropping dramatically and holding steady.

Spencer ran to the door and opened it. “I was waiting for you,” he said.

“
We
were waiting,” said Lolly.

Mitch's mother left her umbrella outside and followed Mitch in, “Wipe your shoes, honey,” she whispered loudly over the drumming of the rain.

Mitch shuffled his feet hurriedly across the doormat and nodded beyond his shoulder. “This is my mom. Oh, yeah, duh, you met her the other day.”

Their meeting had been very brief. Mitch had scooted Spencer away from his mother so quickly that Spencer had barely noticed her.

Spencer and Lolly said hello.

“Mitch has been over here a lot the last two days, so I came to see if you'd like to play at our house. Mitch's grandparents' house.”

Mitch cringed. “When you say ‘play' like that, it sounds like you're talking about two-year-olds.” He scowled at her.

“I'm sorry,” Mitch's mother said gravely. She dipped her chin toward Spencer, away from Mitch, and blinked. Was she embarrassed? Being apologetic?

“I'd rather stay here,” said Mitch.

She smiled—a tolerant and rueful smile. “Okay. Sure. But I want to check with Spencer's parents.” She glanced around, still smiling, but now the smile seemed forced and fixed to Spencer, like the mouth on a statue. “It's a nice house,” she said.

“It was my grandparents',” said Spencer.

“And now it's ours,” said Lolly in singsong.

Spencer's parents entered the room and invited Mitch's mother to stay for coffee or tea.

“I'd like that,” Spencer heard her say.

Spencer led Mitch out to the screened porch. Lolly joined them, but Jasper wouldn't. He remained in the kitchen, squeezed into the small space between the stove and the refrigerator, riding out the weather.

“We'd be drenched out there,” said Spencer.

“Soaked,” said Mitch.

“You're sort of soaked already,” said Lolly. “Your shirt's like a map of the world.”

Mitch looked downward at the huge wet areas darkening his T-shirt. “Yeah.” He grabbed the shirt by its hem and waved it. He fanned it about as if it were on fire.

“It'll dry,” said Lolly. She raised one eyebrow and wiggled it (something Spencer repeatedly tried to do, but couldn't). “I see your belly button. Now I don't. Now I do. Now I don't. . . .”

Mitch let go of his shirt and ran his hands one after the other through his hair. “You're funny,” he said to Lolly in a kindly, older-brother sort of way.

“Funny looking, funny sounding, funny acting, funny smelling,” said Spencer. Lolly's remark made him think of performing his belly trick, in which he'd puff out his stomach, big as a watermelon, then suck it in so that you could see his clearly defined ribs over the cave of his chest. His friends at home thought it hilarious, but he decided against it.

Lolly shrugged. “Yesterday you were soaked in sunshine. Today—rain.” She giggled.

Spencer rolled his eyes and groaned.

They listened to and watched the storm. They stood close to the screen except when the rain blew in, then they'd jump back, laughing. Raindrops stuck to the screen in places—an unfinished needlepoint stitched in diamonds. One thunderclap was so loud they all gasped and shuddered. The world is cracking open, thought Spencer. The sound was penetrating. He could feel it inside his body for a second, like an extra pulse. He was glad he wasn't alone. He was glad he could hear the rise and fall of his parents' voices in the next room.

After a while, Mitch's mother came out to the porch and said, “It's fine for you to stay, but I'd love to have you all at our house later.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mitch mumbled.

When the rain let up and the sun broke through the clouds, they went outside. It was clear and light, and everything glistened. Birds darted and sang. The wind had quieted. It was as if a scrim or backdrop had been lifted. The storm, the heavy cast to the morning, was gone.

“The grass is slippery,” said Spencer. He'd discovered this by accident, nearly falling as he'd stepped onto the lawn. Then he ran and slid on purpose, seeing how far he could go.

Mitch slid even farther. “My grandma would kill me if I did this on
her
grass.”

“Isn't there supposed to be a rainbow?” asked Lolly.

“I don't see one,” said Spencer.

“Me neither,” said Mitch.

Near the lilacs, Spencer spied Mitch's football. He ran and slid, ran and slid, in that direction. He scooped up the football. “Do you want to play?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I hate football,” Lolly announced. “And I don't even care about F.M.S.” Then she said something about a lost rainbow and scuttled indoors.

“What's F.M.S.?” asked Mitch.

“It stands for ‘fear of missing something,'” Spencer explained. “Just a dumb family thing.” With Lolly gone, he felt a certain sense of freedom. “She's sort of annoying,” he said, approaching Mitch. He handed him the football.

Mitch responded with a shrug and a crooked smile. He motioned for Spencer to move, to increase the distance between them. “You can go uphill, so it'll be easier for you to throw. Here.”

The ball sailed back and forth between them. Like a little zeppelin, thought Spencer. They got a nice rhythm flowing. Spencer started keeping track, silently, of the number of passes he'd caught.

“Go deep,” Mitch called.

Spencer jogged backward a few steps.

“Deeper!”

Spencer turned and ran, making a large, sweeping arc. The ball was above him, ahead of him. He sprinted, extending his arms as far as he could. He wanted to catch the football so badly. He wanted to impress Mitch.

His fingers touched the ball—he had it—but he slipped on the soggy grass, lost his balance, and fell. The ball popped from his grasp and tumbled down the sloping yard toward Mitch.

“Nice try.” Mitch picked up the football and came to Spencer. “You okay?”

Spencer's cheeks burned. “Yeah,” he said. He flexed his toes, realizing how wet his shoes were—straight through to his socks. “I'm so bad.”

“No, you're not. The sun was probably in your eyes.”

“A baby could have caught that.”

Mitch turned Spencer's comments into a game. “I'm so bad, I couldn't catch a cold at the North Pole in a swimming suit.” He fumbled comically with the football and dropped it, obviously on purpose.

Spencer tried to laugh. It sounded like snorting. “I'm so bad—” he began. If only he could come up with something good enough, clever enough, so that Mitch would think he was funny. He finally said, “I'm so bad, I wear brown-stained Hello Kitty underwear and pee in my bed every night.” It was something he'd heard someone say at school once.

“I'm so bad,” said Mitch, “I make candles out of my own earwax.”

They both laughed. Then it was quiet.

“Who's your favorite team?” Mitch asked. “The Packers?”

“Actually, the Bears.”

“The Bears?”

“Yeah,” said Spencer. “Because my dad is a Bear fan. He grew up in Chicago.”

“My dad,” said Mitch. A long pause. “Isn't.” It appeared as if he were talking more to himself than to Spencer. When he stopped, his mouth hung open like that on a broken toy. He seemed sad or mad or both. Something.

Spencer wished that he could bring the good mood back. “You want to hear something weird?” he asked. He was taking a risk. Confiding was always a risk.

Mitch nodded vigorously, as if he were eager to change the subject from his father to anything else.

“I think there's a ghost at our house,” said Spencer, tilting his head to one side and speaking in a most serious tone.

He went on, telling Mitch about the goggles in the birdbath in long, fast, run-on sentences, barely taking time to inhale, barely noticing the complicated looks crossing Mitch's face. “But the freakiest was this pile of sugar, or something, by the front door—and I was the only one who saw it—and I know it could only be from Matty—that's my brother—because it had a number twelve drawn into it—and he'd be twelve if he were alive—and a turtle was drawn into it, too, and a turtle is sort of his symbol because—”

“That was supposed to be a soccer ball, not a tur—”

Silence.

“I'm not a very good artist. . . .” Mitch's voice thinned to a whisper.

The air was hot, growing hotter, and, thought Spencer, crackling with meanness. Closing in. They had been walking in circles, the circles becoming smaller. Now they stood still, held in suspension, near the lake in the glaring sun. Would they ever speak to each other again?

Bewildered and angry, Spencer snatched the football from Mitch's hands, backed up, and drilled it at him as hard as he could. He wanted to crack Mitch's ribs. He wanted to smash him into a million pieces.

The ball grazed Mitch's leg and bounced into the lake. “Hey!” said Mitch.

“Hey yourself,” said Spencer. He felt tricked. And ashamed that he'd been tricked.

Mitch waded into the water without bothering to take off his shoes, retrieved the football, and whipped it at Spencer. Spencer caught it, right in his gut. He folded over it, feeling as if he'd been struck by a bomb.

“Did you do anything else?” Spencer asked bitterly when he could breathe again. “What were you going to do next?”

“Nothing.”

And then a new thought occurred to Spencer. He intended the words as a challenge, but his voice was shaky and sounded weak, “Did you let Jasper go?”

“I
found
him, remember?” said Mitch, squinting his eyes and averting them.

“Yeah.” Spencer swayed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I know.”

Birds twittered loudly, like an audience gossiping about them. The sun was a ball of fire. A fine sheen of sweat covered Spencer's arms and legs. His throat felt rough.

“I didn't mean anything bad,” Mitch told him. “I didn't even know you. Or anything about you or your brother.” His hair hung over his forehead and into his eyes like a black glove. He flipped his hair aside and looked directly at Spencer. “I would never have done it if I'd known you.”

Cautiously Spencer tossed the football to Mitch. Mitch caught it and gently lobbed it back. Again. Again.

Spencer cocked his arm to throw, continuing their exchange, but hesitated. He tapped his teeth together, thinking. “But,” he said, “I still don't get it. Why? Why did you do it?”

Mitch explained how he'd wanted to live in the house with his mother, before Spencer had arrived. And how he'd wanted to scare away the new people—whoever they might be. He explained how he'd spilled sugar in his grandmother's pantry and needed to get rid of it—that's why the sugar ended up on Spencer's porch. And he explained how after he'd taken the goggles, he'd felt so guilty he'd bundled them around a rock and thrown them back toward Spencer's house in an attempt to return them as fast as possible without being seen.

“Why did you draw a soccer ball and a twelve in the sugar?” asked Spencer.

“The twelve because I'm twelve,” Mitch answered. “And the soccer ball because it's all I could think of. It was just random. All of it was random.”

It's strange, Spencer reflected, how the same simple thing could be interpreted so differently. What Mitch had meant to be a soccer ball, he, Spencer, had been positive was a turtle. Matty's turtle.

“Why is a turtle a sign for your brother anyway?” asked Mitch.

“Because he swallowed a little turtle statue when he was a baby and pooped it out. We keep the turtle on our mantel.”

“Oh,” said Mitch, nodding. He drew himself up, his shoulders nearly touching his ears. Then he sighed heavily and said, “Come here.”

He showed Spencer the dark, hidden place he'd made for himself under the porch. “Watch your head,” he told Spencer. “It stays pretty cool in here.” Once Spencer was well within the grasp of the shadows, Mitch unfastened the photograph of his family he'd taped to the ceiling. “This is my dad,” he said, pointing. “
Was
my dad.” He ripped the photo in half, ripped it twice more, and jammed the pieces into his pocket. “I was under here the night you came. I was so scared. Jasper smelled me and I thought he'd give me away. Or bite me.”