Bone Fire

Fourteen

HE WOKE AT FIVE-THIRTY, the time he always got up in the summer, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat listening. No one was moving in the house. He was used to the racket of McEban in the kitchen, noisy and impatient with the coffeepot, the smell of frying bacon. He walked to the door, cracking it open to listen. Still nothing. He tiptoed to the bathroom at the end of the hall, easing the door shut behind him. He peed against the porcelain above the waterline to avoid the sound of splashing. When he was done he lowered the seat and sat. He worried it would be too loud if he flushed, deciding not to chance it. He hadn’t been here long enough to know the rules.
In his bedroom again he dressed and sat in the desk chair by the window looking out at the empty street below. A boy on a bicycle rode past throwing rolled newspapers from the canvas saddlebags at the back of his bike. Each paper was wrapped in clear plastic, and the boy gripped it by the excess part of the sleeve, swinging it around his head before letting it fly. Like David was supposed to have done with his slingshot. He wanted to rush out of the house, introduce himself, offer to help, but he didn’t. The rules again.
He thought the room must be someone’s office when they didn’t have a guest. There was a computer on the desk, a Mac like McEban’s, but he didn’t turn it on. Beside the desk were stacks of papers, books and boxes, and he peeked around in one and found a hole-punch, a stapler and padded envelopes, but the snooping just made him more nervous and he left the others untouched. He didn’t want to be caught going through someone’s belongings. There was still no one up in the house.
He put his shoes on to go downstairs, careful to place his feet where each step butted up against the wallboard, because he’d seen stairs built, knowing the boards were nailed solidly at the edges and wouldn’t squeak. In the living room he sat on the couch, then moved to a chair because he didn’t want to hog a big piece of furniture all to himself.
He was chilly and rubbed his arms. At first, he couldn’t figure out why Laramie was so much cooler than the ranch. It was August here too. And then he’d spotted the vent in the ceiling of his room and, holding his hand underneath, felt the rush of air. They kept their whole house colder than the bank in Ishawooa.
In the kitchen he poured a glass of milk. He thought this would be all right, that it might even be expected. It had been late when he and his father arrived the night before, but his father’s wife had waited up for them. Her name was Claire, and she was so pretty he forgot about being tired. She’d given him a glass of milk without asking if he wanted one, and made a sandwich with plenty of mayonnaise when he said that’s how he liked it. He thought about making a sandwich this morning but didn’t want to risk the disturbance. When he finished the milk he placed the glass in the sink, running it full of water, as McEban had taught him to, so a crust wouldn’t form in the bottom.
He thought about going outside, but what if Rodney got up and couldn’t find him? He counted the squares in the linoleum. Twenty-five across and twenty the other direction. He did the math.
When he couldn’t sit anymore, he searched very quietly under the sink and in the pantry, finding an all-purpose cleaner and a brush, a bucket and rubber gloves, and got down on his knees cleaning one square thoroughly, and then the next, subtracting against the total. That’s where he was when Claire came in wearing a pink-and-lavender robe, staring at him openmouthed as if she’d discovered a thief. She wasn’t wearing slippers, her feet so white he could see the blue veins beneath the skin.
He said he was sorry, that he hoped he hadn’t woken her.
“Oh, my God,” she said. She hugged him. She called him a sweet boy, and he stayed as still as he could, breathing shallowly, enjoying every bit of it. He didn’t think about pulling away. His mother was good at lots of things, like telling stories, but she wasn’t much of a toucher. McEban hugged him sometimes, but not like this. He couldn’t remember any similar experience in his life.
Later that morning his father loaded everyone in the car, Claire, and his new brother and sister, Kurt and Corley, and they bought a paper bucket of chicken, mashed potatoes, rolls, gravy and coleslaw at the Colonel’s, and drove east out of town up a long grade until they topped out in the National Forest. Vedauwoo. That’s what the place was called and it was cool as the house up there, though the sun was hot on their faces. Big, pale stones were standing everywhere, like a herd of elephants, and when he stood in the glare reflecting off a stone it felt as if he was onstage at the high school in Sheridan, which he’d done once in a play, with all the spotlights on him, unable to see the audience, even with his hand raised over his eyes.
Claire spread a blanket out in the shade of one of the stones, holding little Corley on her lap, and they had their picnic. The gravy and potatoes were barely warm, but it didn’t matter. Everyone was relaxed and quick to laugh, and then he and his father threw a football back and forth, letting Kurt try when he wanted, but he was only a year older than his sister, only three and a half, and wasn’t any good. When Kenneth lobbed the ball softly toward his little outstretched arms, it bounced into his face and he cried until Claire took him by the wrists and swung him around in circles.
On the ride back to Laramie he tried to keep every episode of the day linked together in his mind, like a highway with each separate memory represented by the yellow dashes in the middle, so he could tell McEban. But he already knew that Claire’s hair in the sunlight was what he’d remember most. Above anything else. It was a deep red color, and he’d always liked red hair and thought Rodney must too. That it was a preference he’d gotten from his father. And she had freckles on her forehead and arms that had darkened in the sun as the afternoon wore on, and he liked those too.
On Monday his father went back to work at the university. He was teaching summer school but said he didn’t mind, that he liked to stay busy and they could use the extra money.
Kenneth got up with him and when they were eating their cereal—because that’s what you had for breakfast in Laramie—he asked his father to make a list of chores. Rodney just laughed at first, reminding him he was on vacation, and then Kenneth brought him the pad and pen by the phone. Rodney’s list said:
Play basketball in the driveway.
Sweep the driveway with the broom in the garage if you feel like it.
Take a nap after lunch.
Read a book.
There’s a shelf of DVDs, but don’t watch the ones rated R.
Enjoy yourself.
After his father left, and before Claire and the little kids got up, he swept the driveway. He thought about calling McEban to see how he was, but he had no idea what a long-distance phone call cost. Besides, he’d almost cried when Claire hugged him, so he wasn’t sure what hearing McEban’s voice would make him do.
He took his wallet from his back pocket and slipped out the credit-card-size calendar he’d gotten at the feed store in Ishawooa, counting out how many days were left. Eighteen. He counted twice to make sure, then put his wallet back.
He left a note on the counter for Claire and walked a couple of blocks down Baker, stopping where it dead-ended into Ninth. He could see a park across the street with a lake in the middle. He waited for a break in the traffic and sprinted across, walking around the lake twice before sitting on the curb watching for license plates from different states. There weren’t as many as he’d hoped, and then Claire was coming down Baker. She had Corley up against her hip, Kurt by the hand, and his little brother was sucking the thumb of his other hand. He crossed back to where she stood waiting for him.
“I left a note,” he said.
“That’s how I knew where you were. And I saw the list your father made.” She set the little girl down, holding the back of her collar so she couldn’t go anywhere. Kurt stood gripping the crotch of his pants. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
Kurt shook his head again.
“Can you swim in that lake?” Kenneth asked.
“I wouldn’t,” she said, and then, “You’re used to a good deal more, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “McEban and I, and my Uncle Paul, we don’t sit around a lot.”
“What do you do all day when you’re home? I mean in Ishawooa.”
They both acted as if she hadn’t said “home” like that.
“I’ve got a horse,” he told her. He thought about all the chores during a day, from start to finish, and couldn’t decide where to begin. “A ranch doesn’t run itself,” he said. It was something he’d heard McEban say.
Corley began to cry, and Kurt said, “I can ride a horse better than anyone. Better than you. Or, better than anybody.”
“Well, you can help me today.” She spun around toward the house. “That’ll be something to do.”
They all drove to the store together. His job was to keep his brother from touching anything, which wasn’t especially hard after Claire let the kids pick out their candy. She asked him what his favorite was and he said a box of brownie mix. That made her laugh, so he was glad that’s what he’d chosen. He’d also been thinking about a bag of Skittles. The small one.
When they got home and unloaded the groceries, she pointed out what cupboards and drawers he should look in for the things he needed to mix his brownies. His brother and sister painted on tablets of paper laid out on the kitchen floor, and they ate lunch while the oven was heating.
“Did your mother teach you to cook?” she asked.
“McEban did.”
She wiped Corley’s mouth, the little girl fighting away from her. “I hear your mother’s writing a book.”
He set the pan in the oven, squaring it in the middle of the top rack. It made him uneasy to talk about his mother’s talents, because he knew how much she relied on the advice of ghosts. Ghosts made him nervous. “It’s about how to live a spiritual life.” He sat back down at the table. “She says everybody needs to heal their relationship with the world.” He was proud of his memory. “She says we have to break free from our trances of unworthiness and fear.”
“Really?”
Kurt said, “Spiritual life, spiritual life, spiritual life,” like he was a parrot showing off. Then he lowered his voice, repeating the same phrase again, pretending to be a frog.
“She hasn’t let me read it yet. She says it’s a work in progress and if anybody reads it before it’s done it might break her confidence.” He carried his plate to the sink, then the other plates. “She teaches too.” He didn’t want Claire to think his mother wasn’t a hard worker.
“I’m going back to teaching when the kids are older.” She was drinking out of Kurt’s glass and the rim was all slimy with his spit, but she acted like she didn’t notice. “That’s where I met your father. At the university here. Do you like school?”
He knew the next question would be about which class was his favorite. “Science is my best subject,” he said, picturing Rodney in a classroom with a chalkboard behind.
“Are any of your teachers mean?”
“Mrs. Kazepa smiles a lot but she’s not ever happy.”
“It seems like there’s always one.”
“My mom teaches all over the place. In different towns, and in every one somebody likes her so much they ask her to stay with them. So she never has to get a room in a motel.” He thought about his mother’s brochures. “She’s real good at showing people how to live in their bodies.” It sounded important, worthwhile, when he said it out loud.
“I think your father told me something about that.” She drank from the slimy glass again, and he thought he might puke if she kept it up. “Does Mr. McEban just make desserts?”
“He makes everything.”
“Kurtie, look at me,” she said. “We aren’t going to have an accident today, are we?”
The little boy shook his head.
Kenneth opened the oven, stabbing at the brownies with a tooth pick, and they were almost done. He helped her gather the art supplies, stacking the tablets and crayons and colored markers in the pantry, then slipped on the oven mitts and set the pan up on the stove. He was trying to remember what McEban had said about his mother’s teaching when his brother dragged a chair to the stove.
“They’re too hot, honey,” Claire said. “We’ll all have some of Kenneth’s treat after our naps.”
Kurt climbed up onto the chair, staring down into the pan. “I only like the swirly ones.” His voice was choked with horror, his brows knitting, his eyes filled with tears. “These ones are just brown. I hate them. I hate the brown ones.”
He stomped his foot and she lifted him out of the chair, standing him on the floor by the table. She knelt in front of him, holding his head between her hands so he couldn’t look anyplace else. He was starting to sob.
“Boys who whine don’t get treats.” She spoke evenly, calmly. “They don’t get anything at all.”
He was sucking at the air like a fish wishing she’d drop him back in the water.
Kenneth finally remembered the exact phrase. “McEban thinks we fit in our bodies just fine.”
She looked at him, smiling, and then back at her son: “You get what you get, and you don’t have a fit. Do you understand?”
He nodded, tears dripping from his chin. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he said.
After the kids had taken their naps and eaten a square of brownie, she led him into the laundry room and started explaining how to operate the washer and dryer, but when he said he knew about darks and whites and water temperature she let him do it himself.
And then there wasn’t anything else she could think of, so he went out in the driveway and shot baskets for an hour until she called him back in.
“I have a present for you,” she said.
She held out an iPod and he stared down at it in the palm of her hand, putting his hands in his pockets.
“Do you already have one?”
“They’re too expensive.”
She looked to the hallway where Kurt was pushing a red plastic truck against his sister’s leg. She told him to stop and turned back to Kenneth. “This one’s old, and whether you want it or not I’m going to get a new one.”
“Maybe Rodney would like it.”
“He has his own.”
The iPod didn’t look all that used. “What would you do with it if I didn’t take it?”
She smiled. “You, sir, are one seriously unfun little dude.”
“I just like to get things done.” He was thinking he had about as much fun as anybody else. “McEban said I couldn’t listen to one on the tractor, or when I’m riding a horse, because you can’t hear if something bad’s happening.”
“Well, we don’t have a tractor. Or horses, either. It’s yours or it gets trashed.”
He stared down at his feet, turning them so his toes were pointing straight. McEban had told him that if you learn to walk correctly when you’re a kid, your hips and everything else would last a lot longer.
“I guess,” he said, “if you’re going to throw it away.”
“I’m having an accident now.” Kurt stood in the hallway, his face full of surprise.
Rodney was tired when he got home but felt better after dinner, sprawling on the living-room floor and wrestling with the little kids, and Kenneth followed Claire up to his room and she turned the computer on.
“What kind of music do you like?” she asked.
“I don’t listen to music that much.”
“When you do.”
He thought about the music in band class, and on the radio, and that his mother played in her trailer when she was home. “Whatever you like would be fine,” he said.
He stood at her shoulder, watching her load songs on the iPod, and when she was done she showed him how to operate it. It was easy. He thought it would be. He knew really stupid kids who had one.