to the windowsill.
I sighed. “I thought all I needed was a ladder, but I think I’m going to hire somebody to remove all of these wind chimes. I can’t imagine why a person would want so many.”
Owen rushed to the window, putting himself between me and the chime as if he expected me to reach out and knock it from its perch. “I like them. Could we keep this one at least?”
I thought of the racket the previous night and how I’d hardly been able to sleep.
As if reading my thoughts, Gibbes said, “In a few days you won’t even hear them.”
“We’ll see,” I said noncommittally, aware of Owen’s eyes on me.
Gibbes moved toward the closet and opened the door while my eyes scanned the room, settling again on the LEGOs I’d noticed the day before. I stepped closer, studying the various primary-colored vehicles and structures made out of the ubiquitous blocks, trying to imagine a young Cal having the patience to make them one brick at a time. I couldn’t.
“Do you think it would be all right if I played with them?”Owen asked. “I promise to be careful, and if anything breaks I can fix it.”
I opened my mouth to say yes, but paused. They didn’t belong to me. Not really. They’d been Cal’s, and I was his widow, but I’d never known the boy who’d made these. That boy was a stranger to me.
“Wow.”
Owen and I turned toward Gibbes, who stood in the doorway of the closet, his hand still on the door handle. The deep closet, a twin to the one in the previous bedroom, appeared empty except for Owen’s suitcase, which sat tidily in the back corner, and a dark blue backpack with a monogram in red resting on top. The shelves that stretched across the closet rose up to the tall ceiling, all of them glaringly empty except for one.
In my mind’s eye I could see Cal taking everything out of the closet and throwing it away, angrily tossing into big black plastic bags the memories of his childhood. Plucking clothes from the rack and hurling them in the bags without bothering to remove the hangers. He never did things by halves, or with muted emotions. It’s what made him a great firefighter, a saver of lives—because he never thought twice about what he needed to do. Yes, I could see him discarding his childhood into garbage bags. But I had yet to understand why.
“Wow,” Owen echoed as he spotted what must have caught Gibbes’s attention.
On a high shelf was another LEGO structure, its blue and white bricks glaring against the faded paint of the closet walls. It was huge, much bigger than anything else on the bedroom shelves, and not as cleanly formed. It seemed as if this one had been made freestyle, without an instruction sheet that explained which brick to place where. It was hollow on the inside, large enough for small LEGO people to sit inside, their sightless stares looking out through holes in the bricks that acted as airplane windows.
“It looks like a DC-six,” Owen said matter-of-factly. Gibbes glanced at Owen with raised eyebrows.
“Our father was an airline pilot,” I explained.
Our father
. The words had stuck on my tongue for a moment, as if to release them meant I couldn’t consider myself an only child anymore. I’d known it for ten years, but this was the first time I’d had to acknowledge it.
“I want to be an aeronautical engineer when I grow up,” Owen said. “So it’s important I know this stuff.”
I wondered whether he announced those kinds of things when he was out on the playground with other boys, and I felt another urge to mess up his hair and undo his top collar button.
We watched as Gibbes gently took the LEGO plane from the shelf and placed it on the desk. “You’re more than welcome to play with any of the LEGOs, Rocky. I know you’ll take good care of them.” He looked at the boy as if he, too, wanted to rumple the dark brown hair.
Gibbes eyed the tall chest of drawers. “I wonder if there’s anything in there.”
Owen shook his head. “No,
I sighed. “I thought all I needed was a ladder, but I think I’m going to hire somebody to remove all of these wind chimes. I can’t imagine why a person would want so many.”
Owen rushed to the window, putting himself between me and the chime as if he expected me to reach out and knock it from its perch. “I like them. Could we keep this one at least?”
I thought of the racket the previous night and how I’d hardly been able to sleep.
As if reading my thoughts, Gibbes said, “In a few days you won’t even hear them.”
“We’ll see,” I said noncommittally, aware of Owen’s eyes on me.
Gibbes moved toward the closet and opened the door while my eyes scanned the room, settling again on the LEGOs I’d noticed the day before. I stepped closer, studying the various primary-colored vehicles and structures made out of the ubiquitous blocks, trying to imagine a young Cal having the patience to make them one brick at a time. I couldn’t.
“Do you think it would be all right if I played with them?”Owen asked. “I promise to be careful, and if anything breaks I can fix it.”
I opened my mouth to say yes, but paused. They didn’t belong to me. Not really. They’d been Cal’s, and I was his widow, but I’d never known the boy who’d made these. That boy was a stranger to me.
“Wow.”
Owen and I turned toward Gibbes, who stood in the doorway of the closet, his hand still on the door handle. The deep closet, a twin to the one in the previous bedroom, appeared empty except for Owen’s suitcase, which sat tidily in the back corner, and a dark blue backpack with a monogram in red resting on top. The shelves that stretched across the closet rose up to the tall ceiling, all of them glaringly empty except for one.
In my mind’s eye I could see Cal taking everything out of the closet and throwing it away, angrily tossing into big black plastic bags the memories of his childhood. Plucking clothes from the rack and hurling them in the bags without bothering to remove the hangers. He never did things by halves, or with muted emotions. It’s what made him a great firefighter, a saver of lives—because he never thought twice about what he needed to do. Yes, I could see him discarding his childhood into garbage bags. But I had yet to understand why.
“Wow,” Owen echoed as he spotted what must have caught Gibbes’s attention.
On a high shelf was another LEGO structure, its blue and white bricks glaring against the faded paint of the closet walls. It was huge, much bigger than anything else on the bedroom shelves, and not as cleanly formed. It seemed as if this one had been made freestyle, without an instruction sheet that explained which brick to place where. It was hollow on the inside, large enough for small LEGO people to sit inside, their sightless stares looking out through holes in the bricks that acted as airplane windows.
“It looks like a DC-six,” Owen said matter-of-factly. Gibbes glanced at Owen with raised eyebrows.
“Our father was an airline pilot,” I explained.
Our father
. The words had stuck on my tongue for a moment, as if to release them meant I couldn’t consider myself an only child anymore. I’d known it for ten years, but this was the first time I’d had to acknowledge it.
“I want to be an aeronautical engineer when I grow up,” Owen said. “So it’s important I know this stuff.”
I wondered whether he announced those kinds of things when he was out on the playground with other boys, and I felt another urge to mess up his hair and undo his top collar button.
We watched as Gibbes gently took the LEGO plane from the shelf and placed it on the desk. “You’re more than welcome to play with any of the LEGOs, Rocky. I know you’ll take good care of them.” He looked at the boy as if he, too, wanted to rumple the dark brown hair.
Gibbes eyed the tall chest of drawers. “I wonder if there’s anything in there.”
Owen shook his head. “No,
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