A Deadly Affection by Cuyler Overholt Page B

great relief.
    Now the plates were gone, the holes were filled in, and the lawn was level again. I cut across the smooth grass toward the back wall, resisting the urge to take off my shoes so as not to soil my stockings. Instead of continuing toward the fountain, however, Conrad suddenly veered to the right, making a beeline toward a wheelbarrow that was standing under the chestnut tree.
    â€œConrad, wait!” I cried after him, mindful of my mother’s instruction to keep him clean. “Let’s see if there are any more raspberries in the hedge!”
    He paused in midstride, glancing at me over his shoulder, then changed his course toward the patch of raspberry canes that arced over the far side of the lawn. Belatedly, it occurred to me that raspberries posed even more of a threat to his shirtfront than did the dirty wheelbarrow. I hurried after him as resentful thoughts rustled through my head. Why did I always have to look after Conrad? Why should I get in trouble just because he did something wrong? I caught up to him just as he was reaching for a shriveled berry on one of the lower canes.
    â€œI’ll get it,” I said, pushing his hand away. I plucked off the few remaining fruits that hadn’t gone all pruney or been pecked hollow by the birds, and we sat on the grass to divvy them up. I had just popped the last seedy berry into his mouth when a shrill chirp erupted from the grass at our feet, making both of us jump.
    â€œIt’s a cricket!” Conrad said, dropping onto his hands and knees to grab at the leaping black blur. He came up empty and grabbed again. “Got him!”
    â€œCareful you don’t squish it,” I said, crouching beside him.
    He made a peephole in his fist and squinted through it. A shiny black antenna poked out of the hole. “Let me see,” I ordered, leaning closer.
    He cracked open his fingers to give me a better view. Unfortunately, he miscalculated, and the cricket jumped out to safety. The creature’s leap, however, was now lopsided, his arc of flight too low to clear the grass.
    â€œHe’s hurt,” I said, crawling after it as it lurched unevenly through the dense blades.
    The cricket paused a moment beneath a half-shorn dandelion head, and we bent for a closer look. One of its rear legs was indeed sticking out from the top joint in a most unnatural way.
    â€œLeg’s broke,” Conrad announced matter-of-factly.
    â€œMaybe it’s just bent a little,” I said, feeling a spasm of remorse.
    He pursed his lips, studying the leg. “It’s aw’ right. I can fix it.”
    Even at this young age, Conrad was always trying to fix things. He took after Father that way. I, on the other hand, was consumed by unanswerable questions: What was the cricket feeling? Was it aware that its life had just taken a terrible turn for the worse, or oblivious to its plight?
    I grabbed Conrad’s arm as he reached for it. “Don’t. You’ll only make it worse.”
    He blinked at me. “No I won’t. I’m going to put a stick on it, like when Uncle Travy broke his leg.”
    â€œA splint, you mean.” I peered at the whisker-thin leg. “I suppose a matchstick might do it. Or a sliver of toothpick.”
    â€œI’ll go ask Katie,” he said, getting to his feet.
    â€œNo,” I said, pushing him back down. “I’ll go.” If we were going to nurse the cricket back to health, we’d need something to keep it in, and I had just the thing in mind: an orchid box that had arrived that very morning with tiny air holes already cut through. I could make a lovely little house out of it, with a bed of shredded cotton and an empty balm tin for water. “I’ll be right back,” I said, jumping to my feet. “Keep your eye on him, but don’t pick him up.”
    At the door, I glanced back, remembering that I was never supposed to leave Conrad outdoors by himself. He was