It Looks Like This (11 page)

I look west toward the sun, watch it creep toward the ground. The dried grass and leaves look like fire running up and down the hills. All of it golden.

I squint but I don’t really have to, it’s not that bright anymore but everything’s still screaming colors, pink and orange and yellow.

Behind me my shadow stretches, long and gangly. I reach an arm up and watch my shadow grow, grow, almost farther than I can really see.

Dad mutters:

Jesus,

kind of under his breath but not really.

He looks at his watch and then back at the sky.

Toby comes out of the restroom with Mom, both of them walking slowly through the glowing air.

They get in the car without saying anything, Dad watching Toby until her door closes, and then he sits down.

He says, Get in, Mike.

I get in.

It’s almost night when we get to Grandma’s, but it’s just light enough to see the hills and woods behind her house.

It’s an old two-story house, fading yellow paint, long driveway, and a few acres of hilly grassland. Every time we come, Toby and I take long walks with Charlie in the woods. He loves any walk but he really loves those woods. We can let him off the leash, and he runs and runs, chasing anything that moves, nose to the ground pulling him in every direction.

Grandma used to come with us on the walks but not anymore since her hip’s been bothering her.

This is where Dad grew up. He loves the house and the land, but he’s uneasy about Grandma being there all alone. It’s big for one person and she can’t maintain it anymore, and he’s afraid of her falling down.

Grandma won’t move, though. Dad says she’s stubborn about it because she’s lived there so long and she doesn’t like to think she’s getting older. But she is.

I wouldn’t want to move either.

Grandma is already outside when we pull up, sitting on a patio chair reading by lamplight.

Mom called her about thirty minutes ago to let her know we were close.

She stands when she sees the car, puts the book down on a table, and walks down the steps to greet us.

Dad’s out first.

He says, You shouldn’t be out here, Mom.

She waves him off with a hand as she reaches out to hug him and says, I’m fine, Walton.

He says, It’s cold.

She gives his back two light pats and says, I’m fine.

And turns to Mom and says,

How are you, Sweet Caroline?

Mom smiles and hugs Grandma and says, Just fine, Martha. It’s lovely to see you.

Behind them the porch light turns them into silhouettes.

The house smells musty but good-musty, like old wood. It’s the only place I ever smell this smell, but it’s always so familiar.

It’s dimly lit and cozy and warm.

Me and Toby go upstairs to our room to drop off our stuff. It’s the room that used to be Uncle Daryl’s when he was growing up, and some of his stuff is still there: old baseball cards and half-finished model airplanes and framed photos. Like someone took a freeze-frame of his childhood from forever ago.

Everything about it is really still. There’s no dust because Grandma cleans it once a week, every week.

We put our clothes in the empty drawer, and I know they’ll smell like Grandma’s house for a while after.

Finally Toby says, I’m so hungry.

I say, Yeah, me too.

I take out some of Charlie’s toys I packed with my things and remind myself to bring them down to the garage later. Grandma doesn’t like Charlie to be in the house but the garage is fine.

Toby says, How long you think before Dad gets annoyed about something?

The corner of my mouth turns up just a little; I can feel it.

I say, He’s already annoyed.

Toby says, He needs a nap.

She takes out her Sunday clothes and hangs them up and says, He always needs a nap.

I smile wider now and she giggles.

I’m keeping Charlie company outside.

In the quiet of the countryside, the crickets are really loud. Charlie’s letting me pet him but his attention is out there, facing the darkness with his floppy ears perked as much as they can be.

There’s no light except from the house and about a million stars. There are a lot of stars in Somerdale ’cause it’s still a pretty small town, but there are even more here, out in the middle of nowhere.

I search through the stars and in just a couple seconds I find what I’m looking for: three stars in a row, Orion’s Belt. From there it’s easy to find his shoulders and head and bow and arrow.

Once I’m oriented to the right direction, I follow along until I recognize the deep V shape that makes up most of Pisces. It’s supposed to look like two fish, but to me it looks more like India. Or like those pictures of sperm they showed us in Health class in middle school.

I turn west and look at the lowest bit of sky I can see. It’s late in the month and for a minute I’m not sure I’ll be able to see it, but then I catch the tip of it. Capricornus. It’s the constellation for my zodiac sign. It’s a goat, but the outline is basically just a triangle. I guess the Greeks had good imaginations.

I can only see a little of it. The rest is blocked by trees. But in a week it’ll be gone until next fall.

I stroke Charlie’s head and neck and behind his ears, and I think about dinner. Pork roast, green beans, potato wedges, gravy on everything. I’m really full, almost to where it hurts, but everything was so good.

In the darkness past the house, I can’t make out any shapes. I picture the house behind us the way it must look to someone a hundred yards away: Glowing warm light spilling from the windows, melting into the darkness a few feet out. Boy and dog sitting on the grass at the edge of the light. Complete blackness in front of them. But above the jagged silhouette of the treetops, billions of glittery silver specks, floating outward forever. I’ll draw this later.

I say, Come on, Charlie,

and we go in the garage.

Charlie curls up on his mat of old towels and blankets into a little ball surrounded by his own shed fur and closes his eyes.

I go inside.

At night I lie awake a long time, listening to Toby’s heavy breathing and the house creaking as it settles.

I think about Sean’s house.

We’re in the woods, me and Toby and Charlie. We left right after breakfast because the clouds came in overnight and it looked like it was going to rain soon, and we wanted to beat the storm.

But now it’s lighter out and the clouds are almost gone.

Charlie’s pulling and I have to hold him back, leash taut. I’m kneeling beside him and he’s paying no attention to me, wanting so bad to run into the woods. Toby’s watching us.

I unclasp the leash and he takes off, fallen leaves flying in his wake, already barking at something that’s probably not there but he’s chasing it anyway.

Me and Toby follow after a second, crunching leaves and twigs with each step.

It’s cooler today and we both have light jackets on.

We don’t say anything for a long time, both of us just quiet and enjoying the woods and then Toby says,

What’s up with that Sean guy?

I feel something like a quick jolt and I don’t really get why. For a few seconds I’m distracted by that. I must let too many seconds go by because after a while Toby says,

Mike?

I say, Yeah?

My heart’s beating faster and I don’t get it.

I mean it’s just Toby.

She says, I was asking about Sean.

I say, What about him?

She says, He seems kind of weird.

There’s a big pile of leaves in Toby’s way, and she steps on it on purpose, careful to hit the exact middle to get the most crunch.

Up ahead Charlie’s running around still barking, a brown-and-white blur in between the trees.

I say, What do you mean, weird?

I’m facing ahead but I glance at Toby out of the corner of my eye real quick.

She cocks her head in thought as she walks.

She says, I dunno. It just seems like there’s stuff he’s trying to get at but never says.

I say, What does that even mean? Plus you’ve only met him once.

She kicks a rock and it hits a tree up ahead and bounces off to the right. Charlie stops and looks back toward the path of the rock, alert, thinking it’s an animal. Then he turns and goes on again. Toby nods.

She says, Yeah, I know. I guess I mean it just seemed like he was trying not to give too much away. When he gave us a ride after school, I mean.

I don’t say anything. My heart is slowing.

Toby kicks another rock and we’re quiet for another minute or so.

Then she says, Sometimes you seem like that too.

I don’t say anything.

The weather changes again and the first drops hit just before lunch, when Mom calls us in to wash up.

While we’re eating there’s a clap of thunder. The rain waits another couple seconds before we hear it above us, building. Another clap and it’s pouring.

On the table: sliced ham, turkey, corned beef, provolone, mustard, mayonnaise, white bread, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, baby carrots, some green beans left over from last night. All spread out before us.

We eat in silence.

Dad looks across the table as Mom and Grandma clear the plates and put away the food, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it but I still hold out hope.

But instead Toby says it for him.

She says, Yeah, yeah, we’ll get ready.

And stands up.

Dad watches her go, and then I follow.

Grandma goes to church Sunday afternoons.

It’s a local Baptist church and she goes for hours, almost until dinnertime and we have to go every time we come to visit.

Upstairs I check Toby’s buckle shoes for marks and she makes sure my tie’s straight.

Once we’re satisfied, we just stand there looking at each other for a minute, neither of us wanting to go downstairs.

Then Toby rolls her eyes and says, We might as well,

and we go.

Lebanon Calvary Baptist Church.

It’s on the edge of town still in the middle of nowhere, off the side of a small road that curves around a hill, but the parking lot’s full. We run in, ducking from the rain.

Toby gasps when the door opens. A gust of humid sticky air hits us. The heater’s on and there are so many people, lots of them wet from the storm and the warmth inside.

The preacher’s already on the pulpit, talking too closely into a mike, raspy voice echoing, bright eyes, bushy goatee. He’s a sweating round man I remember from last year, lots of energy and intense. Right now he paces back and forth and shouts to the congregation.

We find a pew but don’t sit. No one’s sitting.

People are screaming Amen and Praise Be Him and Tell It and things like that as the preacher goes on and on, no one getting tired.

They sway while he preaches. Eyes closed, most of them.

I look and Grandma already has her eyes closed along with them, head tilted back a bit, smiling, listening but at least standing still.

The door opens and closes, more people come in.

The preacher walks back and forth, back and forth. Some people have an arm or two raised out before them, reaching toward the shouts from the pulpit.

Toby drums her fingers a bit on the back of the pew in front of her. Mom gently puts her hand over Toby’s to stop it.

There are so many people.

Ten minutes into it Dad raises one of his arms. I can barely understand what the preacher is saying through the rasp of his voice and feedback from the mike.

I bow my head and I hope it looks like I’m praying.

It goes on and on.

I love Thanksgiving.

Everything around Grandma’s land, the woods and hills, smells fresh and crisp and spicy. It’s only ever cool, light-jacket weather, perfect. Now that we’re here, I’m kind of glad we came after all.

Me and Toby go exploring with Charlie, taking different routes through the woods.

There’s a ravine a mile away and we follow it, pointing out stuff we remember from other trips: a circle of smooth stones in the water; an old hunting stand, half collapsed; a huge oak with a thick branch leading over the creek, perfect for sitting and throwing rocks.

At night we eat delicious food and stay up late playing Uno or reading or talking, though we never say all that much.

Grandma has a ton of old movies and sometimes we watch those.

Dad is tense a lot but not so bad, or maybe we just get used to it after a while.

The leaves keep getting brighter and falling, and Charlie runs through them, never satisfied, and there’s nothing to do and I love it.

Thursday morning the house is already full of smells.

I’m having a dream where I’m eating pumpkin pies, one after the other, and I don’t stop even when I’m more full than I can handle.

I wake up and for a minute I think I can still smell the pies from my dream. Then I realize I can smell them — they’re downstairs.

I walk down in my robe. Toby is already there, inspecting four pies that are sitting on the breakfast table, bent over them with her brow furrowed.

She looks up and says, We have pumpkin and apple,

pointing them out as she talks,

and that one’s gotta be cherry.

She looks at the fourth again, trying to see through the crust.

She makes a face and says, I think this last one’s mincemeat.

I like mince pie but I know she doesn’t.

Two of the burners on the stove are on, and I can hear bubbling coming from one of the pots. I take a deep breath, sorting through different smells, all of them delicious.

The pot just starts to boil over, lid clattering. Grandma walks in and swats at Toby’s hand as she walks by.

She says, Get away from those pies, kiddo,

and lifts the lid of the pot. White foamy bubbles rise up and then fall back under her glare. She looks in a bit longer, then throws some salt in, then puts the lid back on, keeping it open a crack.

She says, Come on now, get out of the kitchen, I got a lot of work to do still. You want to eat all this, dontcha?

Toby nods enthusiastically and says, Ohhh yes.

Mom calls from the other room, Come on, Toby, let’s leave Grandma alone.