The days are getting shorter now and Jimmy doesn’t want to go down into the park. Not when he can play in the leaves and mess up my piles. Aunt Jean has asked me to rake the backyard. I didn’t count on Jimmy’s help.

“Stop that, Jimmy. I’ll never get this done.”

Jimmy lies down in the leaves, burrowing deep underneath. Then he pops up like a jack-in-the-box, wearing a hat of red and yellow maple leaves.

Jimmy can’t say my name very well. His words are slurred and come out like he’s snorting them through his nose. But I know what he wants. I can understand him very well. He’s not a mental defective like Luanne Price said today in mathematics class, before I popped her in the nose.

Our Jimmy is in there. He really is. Sometimes I forget about the accident because he looks exactly the same. Sometimes I go to ask him a question. Maybe, something like, “Jimmy, do you want to go down into the Humber River and ride our bikes through the leaves and see if the salmon are jumping upstream?”

Jimmy can’t ride a bike because he has no balance. Even though there is nothing wrong with his legs, he walks with a gimp now, as if one leg is shorter than the other. I don’t think he can remember what a salmon is. I don’t think he would put it together that a jumping fish could be that pinkish, fried-in-butter delicacy that we are having for dinner tonight.

I put down my rake and play I dive into Jimmy’s pile of leaves. I toss them in the air. I chase him, throwing leaves at him, and then he chases me. When Aunt Jean calls us in, flicking the porch light on and off to save the hydro, I stop and look back. There’s a tiny mound of leaves to show I tried to do something. But the rest of the yard looks like it’s been stirred with a stick.

I’ll get up early tomorrow and get at it before Jimmy’s awake. That’s what I’ll do.

Aunt Jean is already “warshing” Jimmy’s hands at the sink. He wants to chase the bar of soap around the bottom of the enamel basin. Water is splashing all around and Aunt Jean isn’t laughing. She looks like she’s clamping so hard on her false teeth that they might break.

“Sit down and behave!” Aunt Jean pushes Jimmy onto a chair. “Eat quietly. Be polite. Don’t reach. Sit nice!”

I have pretty much given up scolding Jimmy like this. It doesn’t help at all because he gets frustrated. I think some part of his poor head remembers how he used to behave and is sad. Sad because his brain is broken.

The fish is very good, without too many bones. Aunt Jean is more careful than she used to be about the bones for fear of Jimmy choking. So there’s one positive thing for me about the new Jimmy. Just one so far. I go with Aunt Jean and Jimmy to St. James Cathedral every Sunday and the dean’s sermon last week was about how it’s important to find the good and the positive in everybody.

I try Dean, but it’s hard.

“I got picked to say my speech in front of the whole school,” I say, trying to distract Aunt Jean’s mind from all that Jimmy is doing wrong.

“Jimmy, use your fork…. Carolyn, that’s wonderful. Jimmy and I would love to come and hear your performance, wouldn’t we, dear?”

Hear my performance? Jimmy? Running around the back of the auditorium, snorting and making clapping noises in all the wrong places?

“It’s only for kids in the school,” I say. “It’s not public.”

“Carolyn, we’re not public. We’re family.”

“We’ll see,” I say.

Aunt Jean passes me the bowl of peas. Her eyes drill into my eyes, but I don’t turn away or change my mind.

I’m practical. Jimmy can’t behave, so he can’t come to school. Even to hear my speech.

I lean over and catch Jimmy’s tea towel before it slides onto the floor.

“There, now you’re perfect,” I say, tying a big knot at his neck.

“Pur-ft,” Jimmy mimics, snorting like every other time he speaks.