MORNING
There’s an early memory I have of Alistair. He was a tiny kid, nothing but a rib cage and a noggin. Probably four years old. We were in the backyard, playing TV tag or freeze tag or some other version of tag. The sun was getting low and Mom and Dad were inside making dinner when I heard yelping out in the swamp.
“What was that?” Alistair asked.
I’d heard it before with Dad and he told me what it was, but I wasn’t sure if I should tell Alistair. He was a real fraidycat. Even the most harmless things could inspire his nightmares back then. I’m only a year and a half older than him, but when you’re little that’s a huge difference. Huge.
“Nothing,” I said to him.
“Sounds like sad kittens,” Alistair replied. Not that we ever had sad kittens. Not that we ever had kittens at all.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
“They sound hurt,” Alistair said, moving toward the swamp.
I grabbed him by the shirt. “They’re fine. It’s dinnertime. Let’s go inside.”
“We should bring the kitties inside. They probably need milk.”
“They’re fine.” I pulled him to the door, but he broke away and started running toward the swamp.
“Kitties, kitties, kitties,” he cooed as he went.
I was forced to tackle him.
“What are you doing?” he cried as he squirmed in my arms.
“Coyotes,” I whispered.
He froze. “What?”
“They’re coyotes. Pups. But they have parents. Or a momma at least. Something that feeds them.”
“What do they eat?”
“Deer. Squirrels. Whatever their momma can catch.”
Without taking a breath, Alistair whispered a question through his teeth. “Kids?”
My arms wrapped around my brother, I looked into the dark swamp. At the edge was a big rock shaped like a frog. “Frog Rock,” I said. “It protects us from them. But don’t go past it. You promise?”
Teeth still clenched, Alistair nodded.
For at least a few years, Alistair kept that promise. He climbed that rock, played around it, but never went past it. Fiona used to come over when she was little and she’d go past it, but she was always braver than my brother.
Years later—come to think of it, only a few months ago, actually—I saw her bury something out by that rock. Which was weird. Alistair dug it up. At least I assume he did, because a few weeks ago, after I told him about what I saw, I noticed a mound of dirt out there, like a fresh grave. With all the rain and snow we’ve been having, it’s flattened out now. When Fiona learned that I told Alistair, she said that it was a love letter to him that she buried. Could be, but I suspect it was more than that.
EVENING
Love letters. I don’t get those.
Okay, that’s a lie. I got one. Once. Last year. Seventh grade. Valentine’s Day. A secret admirer. No joke. It was signed Your Secret Admirer.
Someone slipped it into my locker. I don’t remember the exact words, but I think it said my eyes were “an azure sky” and my hair was “amber waves of grain.” Azure is blue, I think. My eyes are brown, for the record. And amber waves of grain? That’s in … well, not “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but one of those patriotic songs. So it appeared that Uncle Sam had a crush on me. Don’t get me wrong, I love a top hat, but …
Anyway, the letter ended with a plea to meet the guy behind the maintenance shed after school, which is more than a little creepy. I suppose he didn’t think it was creepy. Probably thought it was a private place where we could talk and no one would bother us. I didn’t go, of course, but I’m actually pretty sure I know who sent it. The Looney Tunes stationery gave it away.
Glen Maple. He’s harmless, I guess. No top hat either, as far as I know. And not really the sort of guy who murders you behind maintenance sheds. At least I don’t think he is. But then, it’s always the ones you least suspect, right?
Actually, no. Not Glen. He’s fine.
But he’s annoying. Like, man, I hope he loses his voice annoying, because he’s always doing these terrible impressions of cartoon characters and he answers every question every teacher asks and is wrong more often than he’s right and there’s a point when he’s wrong so much that he doesn’t seem to care about being wrong. I know that’s mean to say, but it’s the truth.
Anyway, I saw Glen today, when Mom and I went to the grocery store. He was with his dad at the bakery counter, and they were ordering a cake. I overheard him saying, “Mom likes angel food,” and I snorted a chuckle because that’s funny when heard out of context, and he looked at me, but it wasn’t with that oh my god, I want to kiss you all over the face look that I’m used to from him.
It was an I feel sorry for you look.
I didn’t say anything to him. I walked over to Mom, grabbed her elbow, led her to the cereal aisle, and told her, “I’m buying Lucky Charms and you’re not gonna say a darn thing about it.”
It made her laugh.