Chapter One
Ri-i-i-ing. Ri-i-i-ing. Ri-i-i-ing. Ri-i-i-ing. I lift my head from my pillow. The downstairs floor squeaks. One of my brothers shuffles across their bedroom.
âHullo?â Itâs Leland, who is six years old. After a long pause he says, âDo you want to speak to someone bigger?â
âIâve got it, sweetheart.â Mom picks up the phone in her room. She speaks quietly for a few minutes.
âKids!â she calls. âI need to talk to you.â
The three of us bound to her room. The boys are wearing flannel pajamas with pictures of robots and snowboarders. Their hair is stormy with sleep. Silas has eight little circles indented on his cheek. It looks like he slept on a piece of Lego. Iâm wearing the knee-length soccer shirt that Dad sent from England.
Mom smiles at us, but when she blinks, tears slide from her eyes.
âSad news,â she says. âRichard died last night.â
âOutside?â Silas asks, horrified.
âYes, dear,â Mom says. âIn the park.â
âAlone?â Leland asks in a wobbly voice.
âI guess so,â Mom says gently. âRichard slept outside and alone for many years.â
âWas it rainy and cold?â Lelandâs chin trembles.
âIt was a lovely night,â Mom says. She shoots me a look. Mom and I played Crazy Eights last night after the boys went to sleep. Rain pelted the roof, and the wind was so strong that the branches of the backyard apple tree scratched at the window.
Still, maybe Richard was warm and dry. Maybe in his dreams angels rocked him into that weird final sleep. You never know.
âHe was probably dreaming beautiful dreams,â I say to comfort Leland.
âProbably?â Leland challenges.
âMaybe probably,â I say.
âMaybe maybe ,â Leland says.
âWe brought him a coat not that long ago,â Silas says. âAnd socks. He would have been warm.â
âWe gave him money every time we saw him,â Mom says airily. She looks out the window at another gray Victoria day.
Sheâs right, we did. But we never invited him for supper, or for a shower, or a night in a warm bed. We have an unused bedroom in the basement he could have lived in.
âWe wonât ever, ever see him again, right?â Leland asks.
âThatâs right, except in your memories.â Mom starts making her bed. âThere will be a funeral in a few days.â
Leland goes rigid. He clenches his teeth. âIâm not going to a funeral!â he says, staring Mom down.
âMe neither,â Silas mutters, his eyes on the floor.
âLiza?â Mom looks surprised. âSurely, youâll go?â
âNo way,â I declare. I picture Richard, wax-white and unmoving on his bench. I imagine rain on his lifeless face. What was I thinkingâ angels ? Warmth ? He was just as alone when he died as he was in life.
Mom sits again on her bed and studies our faces. She opens her arms to Leland. He resists at first, but then melts into her lap.
âLook, you guys,â Mom whispers. âThis is sad. Even a little frightening. We didnât know Richard well, but we loved him. He was sweet. Gentle.â
âYeah,â Leland sniffles, raising his head from Momâs shoulder. âHis gentleness was more important than his smelliness.â
Silas and I both snort. We try to stifle our laughter.
âMaybe youâll change your minds,â Mom continues, ignoring us. âA funeral is a chance to say goodbye.â She grins, then singsongs, âYouâd miss a bit of school.â
A bribe? How can she be so cold? Richard is dead , and weâre supposed to get excited about missing school?
âYeah, thatâll make it worth it,â I say bitterly as I leave the room.
âLiza, I didnât mean it that way. Iâm sorry. Weâre all upset,â Mom calls after me.
At breakfast my food tastes so dry, it
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