I&#39ll Be There (11 page)

He didn’t break a sweat playing school-yard kick ball, but he broke a sweat slamming the strings.

And now, in the basement of the Bell house, he shut his eyes and he let himself go.

When Sam stopped playing, a full nine minutes later, Debbie Bell was leaning against the far wall, immobilised.

Emily was now sitting in a chair next to her father, who was trying as hard as he could to hide the fact that the tears in his eyes were in danger of spilling down his cheeks.

For eighteen years, Tim Bell had taught advanced music classes at Baine College. He was now, at the age of forty-four, the head of the music department.

And he’d never had a student as talented as the kid sitting on his sofa.

Tim Bell drove him home.

Or to what he thought was his home.

Sam didn’t lie, but he asked to be dropped at the kerb four blocks from where he actually lived.

Tim Bell tried to give Sam his mountain bike, which was in the garage and something he never used, but Sam explained he’d never learned to ride a bike. Jared thought that was a bigger deal
than the way Sam played guitar.

Now Sam sat with Emily in the back seat with Jared up front while Tim showed him the bus route and how to catch the number four bus over on Hilyard and how it would end up only two blocks from
where the Bells lived.

Neither of Emily’s parents wanted him walking an hour each way just to see their daughter. Not any more.

Debbie Bell kept an extra cell phone in the glove box of her car, always charged, for emergencies. She worked, after all, in a hospital, and she knew firsthand the crazy things that happened to
people. She went out and retrieved the extra phone and before Tim took Sam home, Debbie gave it to him.

She didn’t like the idea of him not being reachable. Emily tried not to laugh, and Debbie mistook this for simple enthusiasm.

In the driveway, when Sam took Emily’s hand, he slipped her old phone back to her. And the world no longer felt against them.

Everything changed after Sam played her father’s guitar.

Her mom and dad went from the Haters to the Supporters. That night, after they dropped him off, Emily stood in the hallway behind the closed kitchen door and listened to her parents talk. Her
dad’s voice was fast-paced and excited.

‘He’s a complete natural. An original. An innovator. He’s got finger speed like a young Jimi Hendrix. He’s got blues technique like Ry Cooder. He’s some kind of
prodigy!’

Emily could picture her mother’s head bobbing up and down, because she was enthusiastically agreeing. ‘He’s a real musician . . .’

Her father jumped back in, ‘No, he’s more than that. I don’t know how Emily found this kid. I don’t know where he came from. But he’s going places!’

Her mother’s voice now sounded as if she were trying to calm him down. ‘Well, right now he’s just a kid. He’s —’

But her father interrupted. ‘I want him at the music department at Baine! He’s homeschooled, so he’d just need to take the GED. He’ll have no trouble passing and then
—’

Now it was her mother who was interrupting. ‘Tim, you’re getting ahead of yourself. You have to find out if Sam’s even interested. And homeschooled kids usually have parents
with strong opinions about their education. You’ll need to speak to his father. You’ll —’

But Tim Bell would hear none of it. He had a vision for Sam Smith’s musical future.

Emily walked away from the door.

Her father had big plans for her boyfriend. Maybe being a Supporter was going to cause more problems than being a Hater.

Riddle, more than anyone, understood change. And so he knew that Sam was changing before Sam did.

Riddle was outside staring at a line of ants moving into a small hole in the claylike, rust-coloured earth. Behind him, sitting in the weeds, Sam was talking on a cell phone. But Riddle
couldn’t hear him. And he didn’t want to hear him.

He comes and he goes now. But when he’s here, he’s far away. So even when he comes back to me, he’s part gone.

I follow where I can follow, where he will let me follow. Like the ants follow in the line.

Because Sam is the only one who matters.

And if I lose my Sam, there will be nothing for me.

Riddle lowered his head and his left ear pressed hard into the clay earth. It felt wet and cold. But from this angle, he could really watch the ants move.

They were on his level now. And this close, they seemed blind, feeling their way forward with probing antennae, using smell and feel and taste.

Riddle remembered that Sam had said that ants march to find food. He remembered that they steal from other ants and capture ant slaves. He squinted past the now-large ants to his now-small
brother in the distant background.

Has someone captured my Sam?

Is he now a slave?

The Bells wanted to meet his father.

Not possible.

There was nothing in the world that could make that happen. They could ask and ask and ask, but no. Never. Ever.

His father ruined everything. Always.

Forever.

Was her father now going to ruin everything?

Tim and Debbie Bell shifted to wanting to meet his brother. They asked and asked and asked. And finally he said he’d consider it. And then eventually, worn down from their persistence, he
agreed.

Maybe meeting Riddle would explain things. They’d know then that his life wasn’t all about him.

And maybe they’d understand and stop asking the questions. It was hard enough when she asked the questions.

If it weren’t for Emily, he’d throw the cell phone and the gold watch onto their front lawn and never look back.

What was better, eating together at a restaurant or staying at home?

Where would they feel more comfortable?

Emily settled on her house. It would be harder to keep her father under control, harder to keep him from dragging Sam down to the basement to get into music, but this was supposed to be about
meeting Sam’s little brother, and her father would just have to focus on that.

The night after Sam had played her father’s prize guitar, everything switched. Her dad now acted like the kid with the crush, and she was the parent. Emily had to tell him to back off, to
go slow. She had to tell her dad that he was overwhelming the situation.

They’d picked a Sunday. It would be an early dinner. Even though it was just spring, they’d set the picnic table. Sam told her that eating outside would probably be easier for
Riddle.

Sam would not discuss his father, and Emily had come to accept that for now. They were at odds. It happened. Maybe because his mother had died. Maybe Sam felt his father didn’t do a good
job of taking care of his wife in the end. Emily’s mom had told her about seeing all kinds of things like that in her years at the hospital.

But Sam was different about his brother.

He talked about him, in small ways, all the time. And he worried about him. Once Emily understood that this was part of what made Sam anxious, she felt even closer to him.

She could see that he was always holding the thought of someone else inside. He was always balancing people, and she was now one of those people. He was sharing as much as he could. And sharing
his little brother with her was a very big thing for him.

And that’s how Emily knew Sam really cared about her.

They showed up early.

Sam and Riddle had gone to the laundromat that day so that they would have clean clothes.

At noon, Sam left a ten-dollar bill on the cracked tile kitchen counter, knowing that their father, a born thief, would pocket the money and disappear. That allowed them to get dressed and leave
in the afternoon without questions.

They took the bus across town, and Riddle, holding his phone book, stared out the window, for the most part, unblinking. Sam had explained that they were going to see Sam’s new friend.
Riddle had met her before. Remember? Outside at night in the rain?

Riddle remembered. Because he remembered everything. But he kept that, like almost everything, to himself.

They would eat dinner with the new friend and then take the bus home.

Riddle’s favourite part was that the brakes on the bus made a loud squeak followed by a wheeze when it came to a stop. Every time this happened, Riddle smiled. Squeak. Wheeze. Smile. He
saw it as some kind of joke.

Sam watched. In his own unpredictable way, his little brother was very predictable.

The dog saved the day.

Riddle related to animals much easier than to people, and Felix, the Bell’s nine-year-old lumpy lab mix, got him through the meal.

Emily came out to greet them in the front yard, and she brought Felix with her. Riddle immediately crouched down low, making himself small to meet the dog. He seemed oblivious to Emily.

Riddle’s head moved up and down in the same rhythm as the dog. Emily at first thought it was some strange coincidence until she realised that Riddle was imitating Felix, anticipating his
moves.

Sam let him do that for what felt to Emily like a very long time before he said, in a low, soft tone, ‘Riddle, this is Emily. You met before, and I’ve told you about her. We’re
going to have dinner here in this house with Emily. I want you to say hello.’

Riddle, still moving like the lab mix, glanced up, briefly caught her eye, and then looked away.

Done.

Once inside the house, Riddle stayed close to Sam, appearing neither happy nor unhappy as he focused on the dog.

Tim and Debbie Bell introduced themselves and welcomed him to their home. Jared waited across the room at a distance, sizing up the situation. Riddle scared him.

After an awkward amount of time, filled in by Emily and Sam, they all moved outside to the picnic table. Debbie went back into the kitchen with Tim to bring out the food.

Inside the house, Debbie turned to her husband, speaking in a whisper even though everyone else was in the yard. ‘He’s got developmental issues. Autism? Maybe
Asperger’s.’

Tim looked out the window. He could see them at the table. Sam, Emily, and Jared were talking. Riddle, sitting right next to Sam, was feeding Felix potato chips under the table.

Tim shrugged. ‘We just met him. It might be a little early to label the kid.’

Debbie was all about quick diagnosis. And quick response. She continued, ‘And he’s got some kind of respiratory ailment. Asthma. Maybe asthma and allergies. I wonder what meds he
takes. I hope he has a decent inhaler.’

Debbie lifted the bubbling lasagna out of the oven and placed the hot dish on a tray. She was still whispering. ‘You saw that he’s carrying that old phone book. It’s some kind
of security for him.’

Tim hadn’t seen. But then again, he didn’t notice half the things she did, even after she pointed them out. He now looked out the window and still was not able to locate a phone
book. Did she mean something that was in his pocket or something larger?

Moments later, they were back out in the yard, dishing out the lasagna, salad and garlic bread.

Sam and Riddle were not familiar with things that didn’t come from a fast-food place or that wasn’t cooked on a hot plate. They had eaten mostly what you find at the counter of a gas
station for years.

But since lasagna seemed like a version of the fattest spaghetti with meat sauce ever made, they ate it.

Or in Riddle’s case, Riddle and Felix ate it.

No one said anything about the fact that half of what was on Riddle’s plate ended up in Felix’s stomach. Jared made two attempts to point out the situation, and both times his
parents shot him down.

Emily had told her mom and dad not to ask Riddle any questions. But of course they did. And Sam answered them.

But Riddle didn’t seem to mind being interrogated. He ate food, he fed the dog, and he drank two tall glasses of very cold milk. It was very cold, because he put two cubes of ice in the
glass.

After only seventeen minutes, Debbie Bell brought out a dump cake. She only made one on special occasions, which was strange, because it was less work than making any other kind of cake. Emily
turned to Sam and Riddle and said, ‘This is Mom’s famous dump cake.’

Sam’s and Riddle’s eyes met. Did these people go to the dump? Not possible. And it was also not likely that they had any idea that Sam and Riddle knew more about rubbish piles than a
lot of people who even worked in garbage collection.

Debbie took the cake server and started to cut slices.

‘We didn’t make that name up . . .’ Emily continued. ‘You take a box of yellow cake mix and then you dump in a can of cherries and a can of crushed pineapple.’

Debbie added, ‘You then mix in a bag of shredded coconut and stir in two sticks of melted butter.’

Emily was smiling now. No one else was.

‘It looks crazy, but you put that all in a pan and bake it.’ Debbie offered everyone a slice of dump cake, starting with Riddle. ‘Here you go . . .’

Despite the name, it was obvious, from the first bite, that Riddle loved the dessert. He had a sweet tooth, and his whole life he fought off hunger pains by eating candy.

Once his plate was bare, he held it back out towards Debbie. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were. And Emily could see that. And that made her feel, for the first time all night, at
ease.

Riddle didn’t give any of his first cake piece to the dog, which was half the reason he took a second slice. He didn’t feel right about not sharing with Felix (who, two hours later,
barfed in a basket of unsorted socks in the Bells’ laundry room).

After dinner, Jared went into the house and brought out a new Verizon phone book. He gave it to Riddle, who clearly was pleased. Riddle even looked at Jared and then said, as a matter-of-fact
statement, ‘I needed another book.’

Riddle then opened up his existing phone book and showed Jared what several thousand hours of intricate, mechanical drawing looked like. Jared moved closer, no longer as afraid, and now in
awe.

Tim Bell, liberated from the invisible harness thrown on by his wife and daughter prior to the meal, went into the house and returned with his prize guitar and a bass. He passed the Martin
Marquis Madagascar to Sam, and he took the bass. It was getting cold outside, but they played anyway.