seemed to flicker and fade.
He thought of his mother—remembering the boy he was, standing next to her, cradled in her arms. But now she was gone, and he realized he had yet to earn his name. Pi drifted alone, with no direction, no bearing, no stars to guide him. He disappeared over the southern horizon and was lost.
14
W e glided along in silence for a long time, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The river had a few turns that Early guided me through, and even though we were heading upstream, the current was slow. I took nice, easy strokes, and we settled into our assigned stations—me rowing, him calling out an occasional command. It felt good to be the brawn of our duo and let Early set the course.
I couldn’t begin to guess what was going on in Early’s mind, and every once in a while, he would lapse into his absent stare. It usually only lasted ten or fifteen seconds, and then he’d be back. Always as if nothing had happened.
My mind meandered this way and that, to Pi and Fisher and Mom—and Early, that strangest of boys. And yet here I sat, heading into the wilderness, rowing backward, facing Early. I didn’t know for sure that Early really knew where he was going, but I was in it for the long haul.
After what might have been a few hours, Early took the length of rope from his pack and began making intricate knots. The sun was rising, shedding light on the folly of our trip. It was one thing to set off in the middle of the night. It had seemed more like a dream. But now, as Early worked his knots, I had a knot of my own forming in my stomach.
I rowed harder, trying to keep ahead of the feeling I’d had since the end of Early’s last Pi story.
Early looked up from his knots. “That’s sad about Pi’s mom, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice catching in my throat.
“You’re thinking about your mom, aren’t you?”
“No,” I lied, nearly losing hold of an oar.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“What was she like?”
I looked up at Early. I’d never had to describe her before. Everyone I knew also knew my mom. “She was just a normal mom,” I answered, not giving Early’s question its due. Then I remembered he didn’t have a mom. “She was pretty, and smart, I guess. She knew how to take off a bandage without pulling off the scab. She didn’t mind putting worms on a fishing hook. And she was good with words. Her high school teacher entered one of her poems in a contest. She didn’t win but said it was nice to be considered.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died, that’s all,” I said, surprised to hear myself say it. And then I realized, not only had I never had to describemy mom, I’d also never had to explain what had happened to her. I hadn’t really spoken of her since she died. People had whispered their condolences at the funeral, but I hadn’t been required to give a response other than Thank you for coming . Early, however, was not a guest at a funeral.
“But what happened?” he persisted.
“I don’t know!” All I could do was keep rowing to stay ahead of myself.
Early was quiet, but I knew he was waiting for an answer.
“We’d been talking down by the creek,” I said, leaving out the part about getting lost during the Scout campout. “She said she had a headache and was going to bed early. But no one dies of a headache. The doctors said she had a brain aneurysm. That she died in her sleep.” I lifted the oars out of the water and let the boat glide. “But I wouldn’t know, because I wasn’t there.”
I was absent , I thought, recalling the words in Early’s Pi story. I was absent, and I returned too late .
“I was supposed to be in charge. I was supposed to take care of my mom. But I wasn’t even there. I was sleeping in the barn because it was cool there.” And because I was mad. “When I went into the house the next morning for breakfast, it was still dark; her chipped teacup with the little red flowers was hanging
He thought of his mother—remembering the boy he was, standing next to her, cradled in her arms. But now she was gone, and he realized he had yet to earn his name. Pi drifted alone, with no direction, no bearing, no stars to guide him. He disappeared over the southern horizon and was lost.
14
W e glided along in silence for a long time, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The river had a few turns that Early guided me through, and even though we were heading upstream, the current was slow. I took nice, easy strokes, and we settled into our assigned stations—me rowing, him calling out an occasional command. It felt good to be the brawn of our duo and let Early set the course.
I couldn’t begin to guess what was going on in Early’s mind, and every once in a while, he would lapse into his absent stare. It usually only lasted ten or fifteen seconds, and then he’d be back. Always as if nothing had happened.
My mind meandered this way and that, to Pi and Fisher and Mom—and Early, that strangest of boys. And yet here I sat, heading into the wilderness, rowing backward, facing Early. I didn’t know for sure that Early really knew where he was going, but I was in it for the long haul.
After what might have been a few hours, Early took the length of rope from his pack and began making intricate knots. The sun was rising, shedding light on the folly of our trip. It was one thing to set off in the middle of the night. It had seemed more like a dream. But now, as Early worked his knots, I had a knot of my own forming in my stomach.
I rowed harder, trying to keep ahead of the feeling I’d had since the end of Early’s last Pi story.
Early looked up from his knots. “That’s sad about Pi’s mom, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice catching in my throat.
“You’re thinking about your mom, aren’t you?”
“No,” I lied, nearly losing hold of an oar.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“What was she like?”
I looked up at Early. I’d never had to describe her before. Everyone I knew also knew my mom. “She was just a normal mom,” I answered, not giving Early’s question its due. Then I remembered he didn’t have a mom. “She was pretty, and smart, I guess. She knew how to take off a bandage without pulling off the scab. She didn’t mind putting worms on a fishing hook. And she was good with words. Her high school teacher entered one of her poems in a contest. She didn’t win but said it was nice to be considered.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died, that’s all,” I said, surprised to hear myself say it. And then I realized, not only had I never had to describemy mom, I’d also never had to explain what had happened to her. I hadn’t really spoken of her since she died. People had whispered their condolences at the funeral, but I hadn’t been required to give a response other than Thank you for coming . Early, however, was not a guest at a funeral.
“But what happened?” he persisted.
“I don’t know!” All I could do was keep rowing to stay ahead of myself.
Early was quiet, but I knew he was waiting for an answer.
“We’d been talking down by the creek,” I said, leaving out the part about getting lost during the Scout campout. “She said she had a headache and was going to bed early. But no one dies of a headache. The doctors said she had a brain aneurysm. That she died in her sleep.” I lifted the oars out of the water and let the boat glide. “But I wouldn’t know, because I wasn’t there.”
I was absent , I thought, recalling the words in Early’s Pi story. I was absent, and I returned too late .
“I was supposed to be in charge. I was supposed to take care of my mom. But I wasn’t even there. I was sleeping in the barn because it was cool there.” And because I was mad. “When I went into the house the next morning for breakfast, it was still dark; her chipped teacup with the little red flowers was hanging
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