Maybe a Fox (6 page)

Jules shook her head. When she was in the bedroom, she was forced to look at Sylvie's bed and Sylvie's things and Sylvie's clothes—but that was one thing she didn't mind. In fact, she liked being in their bedroom. Sometimes she talked to Sylvie, low enough so that her dad couldn't hear her. Why shouldn't she?

After Sylvie, Jules also talked to her rocks. Again, why shouldn't she? None of them ever turned away from her. None of them disappeared. None of them left her standing alone with an orange mitten in her hand. When she set a rock in a particular spot in the galaxy orbit, it stayed there. It never moved except when she moved it.

After Sylvie, she shoved the striped sock, with its dozen or so wish rocks, as far back in the closet as she could, then covered it up with an old beach towel from the stack at the top of the linen pantry. The wish rocks. If she had never found those wish rocks . . . perfectly smooth rocks, perfect for throwing across the water, for throwing into the Slip, for carrying a burning wish into the Whippoorwill River on its way to the sea. If Jules could bring herself to dump out the rocks from the striped sock, she would take her hammer, the Estwing E13P, and smash those perfect rocks to smithereens. It wouldn't matter that her hammer wasn't made for smashing. It would do the job. She hated those rocks.

After Sylvie, Jules put the twin agates that Elk had given her underneath Sylvie's pillow to keep them until she could give them back to Elk. She
should
give them back to Elk, but she couldn't. Not yet. And Elk had not asked for them, anyway.

After Sylvie, Dad laced and then untied, then relaced his boots, and then sat there staring at them as if he didn't know whether to relace them once more.

After Sylvie, Jules caught Dad more than once pouring two glasses of milk, then pouring the second one back in the carton. Her dad didn't drink milk.

After Sylvie, Jules poured the rest of Sylvie's coconut shampoo down the drain of the shower. Even though there was no trace of the shampoo, Sylvie's signature scent lingered in the bathroom, clung to the shower curtain, hung there in the steamy air. Jules used her dad's Old Spice shampoo when she took a shower. It didn't smell like coconut.

After Sylvie, Jules stood in the kitchen and watched Dad stir a pot of spaghetti sauce. It was the first time since . . . It was the first time they were eating something besides Mrs. Harless's soups. She was sick of Mrs. Harless's soup, even though she knew that Mrs. Harless was just trying to be nice to them.

The sauce bubbled, thick and spicy. Jules made a salad and her dad dished up the spaghetti and they sat down and ate it at the table where Jules had set down three plates before she remembered.

Again.

Every day she forgot and then every day she remembered.

And that's how it was After Sylvie.

Forget.

Remember.

Forget.

Remember.

Forget.

Remember.

Remember.

Remember.

After Sylvie.

M
idmorning. The spring days were getting warmer. Jules slumped on the bottom step of the porch and leaned against her father. She looked at the invisible line. “Dad,” she started to say, but he interrupted.

“Not to be crossed,” he reminded her. For a second, she felt a jolt of anger. She didn't need to be reminded about crossing the line, did she? She, after all, wasn't the one who had run down the trail to the Slip. But just as quickly as that thought popped into her head, another one did: why? Why did Sylvie have to go so fast? For the millionth time,
why
?

The anger sat on her shoulders, like a nasty sunburn.

Then, “Jules, you're going to have to go back,” her dad told her. “We both have to go back. Next week.”

His voice was low and sad. Jules knew he was right, but she couldn't think about it yet. Kids had to go to school and grown-ups had to go back to work. That was the way it was. She knew the thought of it was horrible for her dad—she could tell by the way he could barely bring himself to go to the store for groceries.

“Dad,” she started to say again, but . . .

“No, Jules. You're going back next week, and so am I. It's settled.”

“That wasn't what I was going to say!”

He looked at her, waiting for her to talk. But what was she going to say? She had no idea. She opened her mouth to try to get a few words to come out, any words. Nothing.

And then her dad got up and walked back into the house. “I'm going to go inside and take a long, hot shower,” he told her. Then he left her there, on the porch steps, her mouth full of unspoken words.
Sylvie would've known what to say to him,
thought Jules, and then she felt furious with herself for being jealous of her sister, who wasn't there to fight with, who wasn't . . . She shook the thought away.

And right then, perched on the bottom step of the porch, the invisible line aglow in the morning sun, her anger spiked again, and this time her mouth cooperated. She spoke directly to Sylvie.

“I'm wearing your Flo-Jo shirt. And you can't stop me either, so ha-ha.”

If Sylvie were alive, Jules wouldn't have talked to her that way. Not that Jules would be wearing Sylvie's precious Flo-Jo shirt if she were alive. Nope. That wouldn't be happening. The thought of Sylvie's outrage made Jules almost smile.

“Talking to yourself, Rock Girl?”

Jules whipped around. Elk! He could sneak up quieter than a rabbit in a carrot patch. There he was now, leaning against the porch railing. He was smiling, but his smile didn't seem to have a smile in it. She guessed she probably did the same thing now.

“No,” Jules said. Then she added, feeling a little brave, “I'm talking to Sylvie.” Elk nodded. Stared out into the woods. Then he surprised her by saying, “I do the same thing. Talk to Zeke. When I'm out in the woods.”

It wasn't the first time Elk had come by during the day when everyone else in his own family was at school or work. Both Jules and Dad were always glad to see him. They had missed him while he was in Afghanistan. They had missed Zeke, too. Still did. But Jules could tell that no one, maybe not even Mrs. Harless, missed Zeke as much as Elk did. She could tell by the smile without the smile.

Elk was living in After Zeke time.

He didn't talk much when he came by, and he never asked about school. Sometimes he brought her an interesting piece of bark or a pinecone. Not rocks, though. And that was fine by her. Rocks would have made her feel even guiltier about the twin agates she still had. He had entrusted her with them, and she had kept them safe. But what was she supposed to do with them now? She had made a promise, but she had never believed that Zeke wouldn't come home. Never. So she hadn't hunted for the Grotto that whole year—so what? Maybe it didn't even exist.

“Elk?” She waved her hand at the woods across the invisible Do Not line. “Do you think that the Grotto really is out there?”

“Maybe,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Maybe not.”

Jules thought of all the hours that she and Sylvie and Sam had tramped through the woods, hoping for a glimpse of the mysterious cave.

“What if there's hidden treasure?” one of them would ask.

“What if there's a troll?” someone else would ask.

“What if there's a catamount?” It was always Sam who asked that one. Always, their hunts for the Grotto ended up with nothing, nothing except their determination to keep looking. With Elk next to her on the damp porch, Jules felt as though the woods were reaching out for her, as if the branches of the trees were signaling her to come toward them, as though the invisible line was daring her to step over it.

She felt a strong tug right in the middle of her stomach, as if she had her own invisible line pulling her from the porch to the woods. It caught her off guard. If she stood up, would she lose her balance? She gripped the step she was sitting on, thinking that if she let go, she might fly away.

Was this how a burning wish felt? None of her other wishes had ever felt like this. They had been small and unimportant.
Find the Grotto.
The words echoed in her ears.

Find the Grotto.
As if he had read her mind, Elk tossed a pebble at her.

“You're the Rock Girl,” he said, and smiled. This time there was a smile inside his smile. “If anyone can find that old cave, it should be you.” Then he added, “Just be careful of the bear—I've seen his tracks.” What he didn't say was,
When you find it, take Zeke's rock there for me.
But that's what Jules heard in her heart.

With that, Elk was gone. He came and he went and she didn't know where or how he spent his days. She looked at the woods. The greenness of them hurt her eyes, such a thick green. And she wanted to be back in them, weaving in and out of the trees, hunting for rocks, running along the familiar paths, running to catch Syl—

The ache in her chest felt like a fist under her rib cage. The last place she had ever seen her sister was in the woods, running away from her, running to the Slip, running so fast . . .
so that
.

“So that what?” she said. “WHAT?”

Jules would never, ever know the answer. Just like she knew, no matter how hard she wished, no matter how much the woods beckoned her, she would never find the Grotto if she couldn't cross her invisible line.

“Sylvie!” she yelled. Screamed.
“Sylvieee!”

Over and over she screamed, and over and over until she was screamed out. The only response was nothing, not even Dad, who must have been taking the longest shower in history.

The dampness of the porch step seeped into the back of Jules's jeans. She looked down at the Flo-Jo T-shirt. She could clearly see Sylvie running toward her, the large yellow
FLO-JO
and a smiling Florence Griffith-Joyner, hands touching the track in her sprinter's crouch, like a banner across Sylvie's chest.

You take that off right now, Jules!
Sylvie would have yelled.
Don't you touch my Flo-Jo shirt!

There was a small hole in the shirt, near the hem, and she poked her finger through it. If Sylvie had been there, she would have yelled,
Don't, you'll make it bigger!
Jules pulled her finger out. She didn't want to mess up Sylvie's favorite shirt. She might wear it every day for the rest of her life.

I
t was time for the kits to leave the den. Their father and mother went first, up through thirty feet of twisting, hard-packed tunnels. Younger Brother was next, his eyes eager and ears pricked forward, paws swift and sure. He had wanted this day since they were born.

Senna looked at Older Brother.
Hurry,
she said. She too was eager to see the above world, see what it was like and stretch her growing legs. And besides, the Someone was out there, waiting. She knew it.
Hurry,
Senna said again. But Older Brother was looking around at the walls of the den: hard dirt walls, little clumps of matted fur. The air was heavy and stale. It was time to leave, but he wasn't quite ready. He looked over at her. Senna could tell that he wanted her to go first.

So she braced with her front legs, pushed off with her hind, and up she went. A few feet up the tunnel, she paused and looked back. Older Brother stared up at her. His eyes were bright with fear.

She dipped her muzzle at him:
Come on!

And then he was right behind her. They scrambled their way into the new world. At the entrance to the den their mother waited for them. The light was distracting—it was the first time any of them had seen sunlight—but Senna lifted her muzzle.

A thousand years of fox knowledge—the meaning of scents and sounds in the above world—beat in her bones and blood. There was a sharp nudge at her shoulder.

Tell me what you smell.

Her mother stood next to her, dark watchfulness in her eyes. Senna sniffed obediently. Her ancestors' knowledge did not fail her.

Meadow vole. Coyote. Wild turkey.

Good job,
said her mother, and she turned to Senna's brothers and tested their knowledge in the same way.

In the distance, across the meadow and beyond a grove of pines, a river twinkled in the sun.
Ah!
Senna wanted, suddenly and with her entire being, to be running.
Run. Run. Run.
How fast could she run across this meadow? How long would it take her to reach the pine woods?

She stared at the woods. The Someone was there, somewhere in the thickest part of the woods. Senna knew it, just as she knew that there was an old cave there, built of rocks, one that had been there for centuries. It was ancient, perhaps as old as the gray-green bars that shimmered in the morning air, whispering to her:
Kennen.

Then, yards away from Senna and Older Brother, the long grass twitched. And twitched again. Something was making its way through the meadow, something small and quiet.

Hunger leaped inside Senna's belly. She looked at Older Brother. Yes. He felt it too. They were in the above world now, ready for fresh meat. No more chewed food pushed from their mother's mouth into their own. Their parents turned to the kits and lowered their muzzles, an intent look in their eyes.

Shhh. Don't move.

Twitch. Twitch. And again, Senna kept her eyes on the twitching grass. She was the first to see the rabbit emerge. She was the first to see him freeze at the sight of the fox family. She watched his fear rise about him: an orange band that made the air itself tremble.

Her father was faster than she could have imagined.

He leaped into the air and pounced. The rabbit was in his jaws and he whipped his head back and forth three times—
SNAP
—and the rabbit's neck was broken and limp. The father bounded back to the family and tossed the dead rabbit before them. His eyes gleamed.