The problem, of course, was that she had been more than a tad icy to Daniel when he first tried to reach out. She hadn’t allowed him to come to the small, non-funeral she had, and she’d seemed reluctant to speak to him for very long on the phone. If we called her again, Daniel seemed to think, we could probably expect more of the same. So this time, we decided, we would just show up on her doorstep and hope she let us in.
We didn’t share every detail with my dad.
What we told him was that we had an appointment withMarian, Jonah’s mother. That she was expecting us. And that we were just getting her blessing before we continued with our funeral plan. When we flew into the city of Syracuse, it was too early to check into our cheap hotel, so Dad found a spot in the bar while Daniel and I lugged our bags onto the bus to a neighborhood called Eastwood.
It was deemed “the village in the city,” and as we entered it, we passed a strip of small businesses. A cigar shop, a dentist office, a restored movie theater with a terra-cotta facade. Jonah’s mom’s street was a little bland, but there were window boxes in most of the windows and well-groomed yards out front.
The house was a green split level with mint growing wild near the porch. Daniel and I walked up the long cement driveway and stood on the stoop for a moment. It was a Saturday, but the house looked dark inside.
“Maybe she works weekends,” said Daniel.
“Maybe you’re being a chickenshit” I said, and rang the doorbell.
There was no movement, and the house stayed just as dark.
“We should come back later,” he said.
Ignoring him, I stepped down from the porch and walked along the side of the house. The homes were close together,and the sun barely found its way in between Jonah’s house and the one next door. I shuffled over the rough cement until I reached a backyard.
It was half asphalt and half raised-bed garden. But the garden was completely overgrown with weeds. They were six, seven feet tall, standing guard around any vegetables that might be trapped inside. Also, the weeds, we noticed after a moment, were moving.
I unlocked the gate and stepped onto the asphalt. There was a pole for a basketball hoop on one side, but the rim was gone, leaving only the off-white backboard.
“Hello?” I said.
The weeds stopped moving for a moment. Then they rustled again and a hand emerged, clutching a dirty spade. It was followed by the body of a short, pretty woman in a purple bandanna. Even covered in dirt and sweat, the resemblance to Jonah was immediate. His tangled blond hair spilled out the back of her scarf, and when she looked directly at me it was with those same gray-blue eyes. She wiped her brow with a gardening glove but only smeared the dirt around further.
“I’m sorry, guys,” she said. “I can’t donate to the marching band this year.”
We just stared at her.
“There have been some financial setbacks. I hope you kids have a good time on your trip, though.”
She set down her small shovel, picked up a hoe, and turned back toward the forest of her garden without giving us a second look.
“Wait,” said Daniel. “Miss. I’m...”
She turned around.
“What?” she said.
Daniel went silent. Marian’s face was already pained, like the slightest human interaction was grating on her. I opened my mouth.
“We don’t play in the marching band,” I said. “In fact, I kind of hate marching bands. Does anyone really like them?”
Daniel gave me a get-to-the-point look.
“We’re friends of Jonah’s,” I said. “We came to talk to you about him.”
For a split second, her grimace disappeared, and I wasn’t sure if she heard me right. But then she closed her eyes for a moment and vanished into the garden. I heard the hoe hit the ground and watched as a few of the giant weeds started to tremble.
“I’m not really in the mood for visitors today, guys,” she said from inside. “I’ll give you the web address for hisfoundation, though. Feel free to add a message to the message board. That would be really nice.”
We both stood there for a second, staring into the weeds. They were brown stalks, dry looking, with little tufts of seeds at the top. They looked like they were left over from last year. I didn’t want to leave this yard—and I knew I shouldn’t—but I also wasn’t sure what to do next. How aggressive could you really be with a grieving parent? We couldn’t force her to talk about things if she didn’t want to.
So, I was surprised when Daniel took a step forward. Instead of heading back through the gate the way I expected him to, he walked over to the garden and grabbed a pair of dirty leather gloves sitting in the yard. Then he put them on, flexed his hands, and just started yanking on one of the weeds.
I watched his muscles strain and, though it had never occurred to me before, he was strong for his size. He struggled with the weed for a minute, grunting a little. Then he gave it one last yank and up it came, roots heavy with dark soil. He broke the stalk in half and then moved on to the next one. Oddly enough, Marian didn’t comment. She just kept working.
