I turned and led the way across the hallway to Cal’s former room, effectively ending a conversation I had no intention of having.
I hadn’t yet walked inside this room, somehow sensing that Cal wouldn’t have wanted me there, as if to see his childhood possessions would make him seem less the man he wanted to portray himself as to the world. But Cal was dead. I’d seen him buried and could still feel the grains of dirt that clung to my palm after I’d opened my fist, unable to dislodge them, just as I was unable to free myself of my memories of him. I just couldn’t stop imagining him around each corner, waiting for me to say or do the wrong thing.
After pausing briefly on the threshold, I walked into the middle of the room, forcing myself to breathe normally.
Gibbes had been right: Owen had left the room spotless. The bed would have made even Cal approve, the bedclothes pulled so tight a quarter would have bounced off them. I imagined the corners of the sheets under the bedspread were folded with military precision.
Gibbes walked past me, then squatted in front of a clear plastic boxlike structure tucked back against the wall.
“It’s a terrarium,” a voice said from the doorway.
We turned to see Owen, with his starched pants and buttoned-up shirt, watching us openly. I knew he was only ten, but he was like a little man, with his grown-up clothes and big words. I had no experience with children, but something in me wanted to rumple his hair and buy him a pair of faded jeans with patches on the knees.
“What’s a terrarium?” I asked, although I already knew. I thought it had probably been a while since anybody except his mother had cared enough to show any interest in his hobbies. He looked so fragile all of a sudden, as if he were a small leaf hanging precariously from a tree branch.
He looked from me to Gibbes and then back again, as if waiting for one of us to tell him I was joking. Taking a step into the room, he said, “Technically, a terrarium is a miniature ecosystem for plants. You’re not supposed to put bugs or animals inside them, but I like to collect interesting insects and spiders and watch them through a magnifying glass. But I always make sure I let them out after a few hours.”
“Do you like catching and observing Lampyridae?”
He looked at me with surprise.
I cleared my throat and thought back to the many summer mornings in our brightly lit kitchen, where my father and I would peer into my own insect cage and he would teach me the proper names of the winged and six-legged critters I’d collected from my mother’s garden.
“Lampyridae is a family of winged insects in the beetle order Coleoptera. They’re called lightning bugs because their bodies use bioluminescence to attract mates or prey.” I gave him a crooked smile.
He smiled back, and I noticed how his front teeth slightly protruded over the others and he’d probably need braces at some point. Just like I had.
“Did our daddy teach you that?” Owen asked.
Something sharp and deep tugged at my chest. “Yeah. I guess he gave that to both of us.”
“Did the kids at school laugh at you because you knew all the scientific names for insects?”
I frowned for a moment, remembering. “They did at first. And then, when I picked up a big spider from Terri Zerbe’s backpack and took it outside, the kids thought I was pretty cool.”
“Really?” His face was so bright and hopeful that I had to laugh.
“Really. Believe it or not, most people are afraid of large bugs, especially spiders—although technically they’re arachnids and not bugs. My husband was a big and strong firefighter, but he was afraid of even the tiniest of spiders.” My smile faded as I recalled how angry Cal had been when I’d calmly scooped up a little house spider and set him out on the windowsill. Cal had crushed it with a flowerpot, and I’d learned quickly to never allow myself to acknowledge his fear.
I looked up and caught Gibbes watching me carefully, and for a moment they were Cal’s eyes, and a small fissure of fear threaded its way down my spine.
Unaware of the undercurrent of tension in the room, Owen said, “Spiders are pretty cool, but I like the fireflies the best. Sometimes I catch enough that when I turn out the lights in my room, it’s like having a night-light.”
The sound of chattering glass came from outside the open window. A rusty screen with more holes than wire separated us from a wind chime suspended outside the bedroom window by a board nailed to the windowsill.
I sighed. “I thought all I needed was a ladder, but I think I’m going to hire somebody to remove all of these wind chimes. I can’t imagine why a person would want so many.”
Owen rushed to the window, putting himself between me and the chime as if he expected me to reach out and knock it from its perch. “I like them. Could we keep this one at least?”
I thought of the racket the previous night and how I’d hardly been able to sleep.
As if reading my thoughts, Gibbes said, “In a few days you won’t even hear them.”