tulip. “Grief,” she said, “brings a little bit of twilight to everyone it touches. This is something to remind you of the bright days.” Her eyes fluttered. “Get some sleep now.”
Later, I heard them murmuring in the hall.
“. . . serious bruises,” whispered Clarissa. “You saw them last night?”
“They were welts,” said my mother.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Their voices became inaudible, then moments later, sparked back to life.
“ Because, ” my mother was hissing, “Richard’s talking about sending him to Charlottesville. I’m not ready for that.”
“Well, the mind can’t make bruises. Either someone did it to him, or he did it to himself.”
“Well, I didn’t do it. And there was no one else here.”
Clarissa seemed to think about this a moment.
“Have you considered telling Tom Harris?”
My mother’s tone became sharp. “Why would I tell Tom Harris?”
“He has had some experience with . . .”
“I know the stories. Why do you think it’s relevant?”
“Just considering the possibility.”
“No, I don’t see that,” said my mother, suddenly cold.
“Tom Harris has helped give advice to the church. He helped some suffering people.”
“I said, forget about that,” snapped my mother. Then in a conciliatory tone: “Let’s not discuss it.” Finally, filling a wounded silence:
“I mean—thank you.”
Moments later they were clumping down the stairs and saying good-bye. After the door closed, I heard my mother heave a deep sigh. That night, she cooked me a “sick dish,” chicken soup with rice and a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d
79
lemon. The next day she wrapped me in scarves before sending me to school.
She debated whether to take me to Freddie’s Halloween party. My mother had not missed a single Turnbull party in her entire time in Preston, she admitted, Uncle Freddie’s parties being local legend. She considered the importance of “getting me out” and “cheering me up.”
I begged her to take me. It was the first Halloween party he’d given. Every seventh-grader I knew would be there. Finally, she relented.
“I’m going to do it,” she said at last. “We need to get out, see people, do new things, refresh ourselves. We’ve barely seen another soul, besides at work and school, since your father.” She omitted the word died.
“We’re going to the Halloween party?”
“Yes, we’re going to the Halloween party.”
But even with the sickness, the sleeplessness, and the imposing presence of my Friend, I still remained focused on my father’s mission. Discovering my father’s letters. Keeping Tom Harris at bay. n o t e b o o k 7
All Hallows’ Eve
Halloween day bloomed into a robust autumn afternoon with a broad sky. My mother and I walked together in Slopers Creek Park, kicking the hedge apples. She must have been thrilled. There was color back in my cheeks; I was practically romping through the yellow grass, picking up stones and throwing them into the creek. Back home, we made costumes for the party. My mother created a ruff collar out of a paper ornament, put me in a black corduroy shirt, rolled up some trousers to make knickers, and popped a black hat of hers on my head: a Dutch trader. She wrapped a scarf over her head and a patterned skirt around her waist, put on beads and a makeup mole: a gypsy. The sun went down. I counted the minutes.
Shivers went up my spine as soon as we approached Rosetta in the car, and the real blackness of night descended over a mild evening. Where we turned into the steep driveway, already crammed with cars, Freddie had placed jack-o’-lanterns on poles, hideous ones with long, stabby teeth and flaming eyes, and even elaborate earholes. “Only Freddie would think of art nouveau pumpkins,” my mother laughed. The windows glowed gold, and promised, with moving shadows and shades of scarlet and white and black, many guests in wild disguises. 80
a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l
Later, I heard them murmuring in the hall.
“. . . serious bruises,” whispered Clarissa. “You saw them last night?”
“They were welts,” said my mother.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Their voices became inaudible, then moments later, sparked back to life.
“ Because, ” my mother was hissing, “Richard’s talking about sending him to Charlottesville. I’m not ready for that.”
“Well, the mind can’t make bruises. Either someone did it to him, or he did it to himself.”
“Well, I didn’t do it. And there was no one else here.”
Clarissa seemed to think about this a moment.
“Have you considered telling Tom Harris?”
My mother’s tone became sharp. “Why would I tell Tom Harris?”
“He has had some experience with . . .”
“I know the stories. Why do you think it’s relevant?”
“Just considering the possibility.”
“No, I don’t see that,” said my mother, suddenly cold.
“Tom Harris has helped give advice to the church. He helped some suffering people.”
“I said, forget about that,” snapped my mother. Then in a conciliatory tone: “Let’s not discuss it.” Finally, filling a wounded silence:
“I mean—thank you.”
Moments later they were clumping down the stairs and saying good-bye. After the door closed, I heard my mother heave a deep sigh. That night, she cooked me a “sick dish,” chicken soup with rice and a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d
79
lemon. The next day she wrapped me in scarves before sending me to school.
She debated whether to take me to Freddie’s Halloween party. My mother had not missed a single Turnbull party in her entire time in Preston, she admitted, Uncle Freddie’s parties being local legend. She considered the importance of “getting me out” and “cheering me up.”
I begged her to take me. It was the first Halloween party he’d given. Every seventh-grader I knew would be there. Finally, she relented.
“I’m going to do it,” she said at last. “We need to get out, see people, do new things, refresh ourselves. We’ve barely seen another soul, besides at work and school, since your father.” She omitted the word died.
“We’re going to the Halloween party?”
“Yes, we’re going to the Halloween party.”
But even with the sickness, the sleeplessness, and the imposing presence of my Friend, I still remained focused on my father’s mission. Discovering my father’s letters. Keeping Tom Harris at bay. n o t e b o o k 7
All Hallows’ Eve
Halloween day bloomed into a robust autumn afternoon with a broad sky. My mother and I walked together in Slopers Creek Park, kicking the hedge apples. She must have been thrilled. There was color back in my cheeks; I was practically romping through the yellow grass, picking up stones and throwing them into the creek. Back home, we made costumes for the party. My mother created a ruff collar out of a paper ornament, put me in a black corduroy shirt, rolled up some trousers to make knickers, and popped a black hat of hers on my head: a Dutch trader. She wrapped a scarf over her head and a patterned skirt around her waist, put on beads and a makeup mole: a gypsy. The sun went down. I counted the minutes.
Shivers went up my spine as soon as we approached Rosetta in the car, and the real blackness of night descended over a mild evening. Where we turned into the steep driveway, already crammed with cars, Freddie had placed jack-o’-lanterns on poles, hideous ones with long, stabby teeth and flaming eyes, and even elaborate earholes. “Only Freddie would think of art nouveau pumpkins,” my mother laughed. The windows glowed gold, and promised, with moving shadows and shades of scarlet and white and black, many guests in wild disguises. 80
a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l
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