We pass Richard’s bench on the way to school each day, but I don’t look at it anymore. I’m still mad at Richard for making me feel bad. Or, I don’t know, maybe for not being around when I have all these questions. Maybe I’m angry because I think my anger will wake him up—to defend himself.
Even though I don’t look at Richard’s bench, I still get a feeling that he’s watching me when I walk through. One day, as we’re walking to school, Silas says, “Stop. Let’s tidy up.”
Leland says, “Good idea.”
The sunflower is shriveled up, and the seat of the bench is littered with curling yellow leaves. I wipe the photo frame clean with my sleeve. Leland clears the leaves from the bench.
The rain and sun have faded the Rest in Peace sign to a blank page. Silas gets a pen and paper from his backpack and makes a new one.
I gather a bouquet to lay on the bench. There aren’t many flowers at this time of year, so I collect small evergreen branches from the ground. I search under the skirt of a cedar tree and am jolted by what I see.
At the base of the tree is an old wool blanket in a clump, a sleeping bag with fiberfill fizzing through its large holes and a dirty pillow. Beside the bedding are three blackened candle stubs, a couple of forks, a bent spoon, a canopener and three unopened cans. There are Heinz Baked Beans, Alphagetti and Chef Boyardee Ravioli. They are what my mom calls “non-food.”
It’s damp under the tree, but it’s protected. I look at the spiraling branches above and imagine the moonlight sifting down. It could be beautiful. But mostly, it feels primitive and cramped.
“Liza?” Silas sounds ready to go. I hurry out from under the boughs. I don’t want him to see. I don’t know if it was Richard’s sleeping place, but I have a strong urge to protect the little bit of privacy Richard had.
At school we pass the planter where the boys and I had snacks before the funeral. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice green sprigs shooting out of the carrot tops we shoved into the dirt. They look triumphant. They give me a thrill.
Moments later Niall stops me outside class. He’s shaking with anger. “She said it would be too smelly! No, she said ‘too odorific,’” he seethes. “Can you believe it?”
Just then a clunk sounds through the pa system. Mrs. Reynolds’s voice squeaks nasally. “I’d like to remind everyone to be careful of the flagpole in the front schoolyard. A flag is a very important symbol. So, please, keep your distance.”
Niall and I laugh. Niall says he’s going to give the petition to the vice-principal and send it to the head of the school board. I suggest he send it to the editor of the city’s daily paper.
“Good idea.” He nods. Then he slumps against the wall. “I’ve got to say, I’m getting tired of asking.”
That afternoon I’m in class staring out the window at the schoolyard when I notice that a swath of grass has been dug up. A huge patch of dirt has been laid bare. I look at the blank blackboard at the front of the room, then back at the patch of dirt. They have the same message: Make a mark. Create. Invent.
As the blackboard fills with math equations, I glance down at the rectangle of dirt and imagine it as a bmx track or a tennis court or a dance floor.
After school, I pass Mr. Moyle, our school custodian, turning the dirt with a shovel.
“The grass was getting choked out by a nasty weed that I couldn’t fully uproot,” he explains when I ask what’s going on. “I had to dig the whole thing up. I’ll be reseeding in a couple of weeks.”
“With what?” I ask.
“Grass,” he answers. “Of course.”
I stare at the patch of dirt, imagining a carpet of grass. In my mind, the grass suffocates the dirt. Then I notice Mr. Moyle is giving me a quizzical look.
On my way home through the park, there’s rustling again in the bushes near Richard’s bench. I’m on my own. I feel frightened and excited. It’s silly, but I call out, “Richard?” The bushes rustle again, but nothing emerges. I run home as fast as I can. I race straight to my room.
“Liza?” Mom is at my door. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No thanks,” I say. I’m lying face-down on my bed.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Mom sits on the edge of my bed. She hands me a cup of tea. I take a deep breath and ask, “Mom, do we even know that Richard’s dead? I mean, those ashes in that box. No one saw them. They could have been Cheerios.”
“Cheerios?” Mom laughs.
“Who saw his body, anyway? Who found Richard?”
“Richard is dead, Liza. There isn’t any doubt.” Mom rubs my back.
“You wouldn’t know it by the way you and the boys act,” I say peevishly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you guys act as if nothing’s changed. You chat with your friends about the weather. On the morning he died, the boys played Lego!”
“Liza, Silas was crying so hard that day, I had to get him out of school early. But I don’t have to prove how he feels. People mourn in different ways, but we all feel sad. We also feel angry and confused. Sometimes, we even deny that the person died. Honey, you can’t judge what’s inside someone’s heart by how they act. You have to ask.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. I wish I knew how Richard felt all those years.”
“I do too. I wish I’d asked.”
“Me too.”
The world goes silent then. We both slurp our tea.
The next day Niall and I are talking in the hallway when Mr. Moyle shuffles by with his shovel. As I watch him head outside, my brain ignites with the best idea I’ve ever had. I tingle all over. I can almost hear my brain synapses snap and sizzle.
“Are you okay?” Niall asks, smiling.
“I’m fine,” I say. I decide to keep my sizzling idea to myself for now. Mom always says, “Let it percolate before you pour.” For once I will take her advice.
I spend the next two days percolating. I gaze out the classroom window at that swath of dirt where anything could go. Plain, boring, inedible grass is an insult. It’s like asking an opera singer to sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” or a chef to cook Kraft Dinner. I remember the lines Mom read at the memorial: Turn me into song; sing me awake. I imagine plants bursting up from that brown pool. I see vines and branches rustling and pulsing with nourishment, their fruit swelling.
My idea is good.
“Mrs. Reynolds!” I burst into her office at lunch. Words tumble out of me. “The dirt in the side yard. Could GRRR! plant a garden there? Like Nelson Mandela did when he was in prison? Each class could take turns looking after it.”
Mrs. Reynolds doesn’t even consider it. “No,” she says.
“But we’d have fresh food. Kids could learn how things grow.”
“Students would track dirt into the school. It would look untidy. Strangers would take the food.”
“So what? They’d be eating it.”
“No.”
“But—”
“No, Liza Maybird,” she says. “And I don’t appreciate your insinuation that this school is like a South African prison.”
“It didn’t used to be!”
“Get to class. Or I will see you in detention.”
Now I understand Niall’s fury.
When I go outside for recess, I wonder if seeing the patch of dirt will anger me more. Instead it slows me right down. It is simply “there,” free of expectation. It’s patient like Richard. What had he missed out on? What had he dreamed of doing when he was my age?
Now, I imagine Richard happy and golden on his bench. I see sprigs of green reaching, small explosions of color. I know what I am going to do. I only hope the girls of GRRR! will get on board.