One steaming afternoon, I come in from the north pasture. My mother is up from her sewing as soon as she sees me and tries to serve me a Coke from the icebox and make me a sandwich. I gladly take the Coke, but I tell her to sit back down, remind her she doesn’t need to do all this, but it’s ingrained. She listens to me, though, goes back to her sewing. I sit with her for a while, and we don’t speak until I tell her I’m going up for a bath.
In all the days I’ve been here so far, I’ve passed by Jimmy’s old room several times. This time, I stop and stand outside of the door. I open it carefully, bracing for some awful creak, but there’s none.
His room is the same.
Exactly the same.
The same quilt folded across the end of his bed. The same pair of shoes waiting by the door. The same books and pencils on his writing desk.
I take in a slow breath and step inside.
There’s not a speck of dust anywhere. The bed is made neatly.
It’s as if he’s just gone out to the pasture and will be back in a minute.
Everything is suspended in time, as if I’ll turn and he’ll be in the doorway, a smirk on his face, chiding me for going into his room. My mother has dutifully come in here to dust and freshen up for almost two decades. I selfishly wonder if she would have done the same if it was me.
I see a picture on his desk of us, taken not long before everything went to hell. We look like stair steps — Jimmy, me, and Glen in our Sunday best. And even though it was taken long ago, it still feels as if it was taken a million years too late.
I pick up the picture and stare at it, at the little details of my brother I’d forgotten. The way he always liked to stand, just slightly askew, and the tiny dimple in his chin. I think about that fateful day, that awful day, about how I wasn’t supposed to be near the stables, but it was Sunday afternoon. The after-church-and-Sunday-supper lull. I was bored. It’s the silliest thing now. Ridiculous. And the pastor talked about the Devil and idleness and I just didn’t think.
I didn’t think.
My father had just bought Emerald Lady from the Jessups. She was mostly tamed, but still had a little wildness in her. I scared her, is what happened. I must have walked into something, or she was just startled to see me. So she reared up, kicking her legs, whinnying. She got out somehow and I ran away from the stables. And Jimmy was outside. I don’t know why or what he was doing, but he shoved me out of Emerald Lady’s way, and she was just running, spooked, scared. Like any animal.
Two days later, I heard the gun shot echo through the fields.
I was aware of all the trouble I’d caused. Jimmy never said a word. He never blamed me, never told anyone. Everyone kept calling it an accident. This terribleaccident. Our son has been in anaccident. The word left a taste in my mouth, like something chalky and bitter. And even now, standing in his room, thinking of that day, a secret he took with him, I want to spit it out.
“Asher?”
I turn and my mother is in the hallway, fingers touching her collarbone. She glances around Jimmy’s room worriedly for a second. “You’ve got someone here to see you.”
I stare at her. “See me?”
“He says he’s a friend.”
I blink and try to think, to pull myself out of my shame. The only person who’d known where I’d gone was Randy, but I didn’t give him many details. I follow my mother downstairs, and turn to the entrance to see, and when I see I stop short, my heart thudding like horses’ hooves.
There in a dark suit, holding a Tupperware Jell-O mold, his hair neat, and his smile pensive, is Paul.
There’s a moment where I’m not sure if I’m seeing right.
Then there’s a moment when I realize I’m still in my dirty, sweat-stained clothing. Embarrassment creeps over my skin.
He looks at me for a second, a slight nod, then turns to my mother. “I was sorry to hear about your husband,” he says sincerely. He hands her the Tupperware. “This is from my aunt.”
My mother takes it, politeness around her eyes. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”
He looks at her, at me, pushes up his glasses. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
There’s something in the way he’s standing, the assurance in his voice, that makes me feel like I’m shrinking. My mother looks at me for a moment, but I can’t say a word. I just stand there like a dolt.
She turns to Paul. “Mister…?”
“You can call me Paul,” he says, with a hint of a smile.
“Paul.” She looks over at me again, as if I might have something to add, but I just stand stiff and frozen. “Well, would you like to stay for dinner?”
