after I’d turned thirteen. The day after Mr. Marsdale died.
All through school, the news was circulating. A heart attack while he was asleep the night before.
Blam,
his heart shuddered and he was gone like a snuffed-out candle. I sat through all the talk—in classrooms, in the cafeteria, on the bus ride home later that afternoon—listening to the ebb and flow of conversation around me, wondering if I’d somehow made it happen.
Because I’d seen something just the day before. Something that worried me. And because of that, I wondered if I had some kind of strange connection to Mr. Marsdale’s death. I wondered if what I’d done was something more than a prediction of it.
A man in a black suit had come into our classroom the day before, had looked Mr. Marsdale up and down like a cattle buyer contemplating a possible purchase. But no one else had seen this. Just me. I realized that after I’d interrupted Mr. Marsdale during his lesson to say, “Mr. Marsdale, who’s that man in the black suit standing beside you?” and everyone in the room had laughed at me behind their hands. I got a stern warning not to be disruptive. Then, later that night, Mr. Marsdale’s heart stopped beating.
Somehow I felt like I’d done it, had made it happen. Would he have died if I hadn’t seen the man in the black suit come to stand beside him? That awful man with stringy red hair and a beard that animals might have built nests in. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat with the smell of charcoal wafting off it, smoky and dark. Would Mr. Marsdale have died if I hadn’t said anything about it? If I hadn’t said out loud in class that I saw the man in the black suit standing right beside him?
My guts twisted throughout the school day, and when I got off the bus that afternoon, I ran into the house to complain to my mother. I told her that I couldn’t go back there; I told her I felt sick and didn’t belong there with everyone.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, her hands gripping my shoulders to steady me, her eyes pinched, shaking her head in confusion. “Aidan, where is all this coming from?”
So I told her what I’d seen during history, how the man in the black suit had come into our classroom like anyone who worked at the school might have. Like he belonged there. I told her how he’d looked Mr. Marsdale up and down as if looking at a cow going to auction, as if he were evaluating the distribution of fat and muscle in Mr. Marsdale’s body. Would he be a good buy? I told her how I’d tried to call Mr. Marsdale’s attention to the man in the black suit, and how no one else but me could see him, and how the man in the black suit had looked straight at me and tipped his hat in my direction before exiting the room, leaving me shaking at my desk, nearly breathless.
When I finished, I looked up, choking on my tears a little, to find my mother staring out the window over the kitchen sink, entranced by something in the distance, across the creek, over in the orchard. She didn’t say anything right away, but finally she turned back to me and said, “He must not have told his story true, then.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, blinking away my last tears.
“Mr. Marsdale had a chance,” she said, “like any of us do.” She stopped then, and her eyes started to look inward to a place where I wouldn’t be able to reach her if she retreated any further. I had to prompt her to continue, asked her to go on, to keep her there in the room. “Are you telling your own story,” my mother finally asked me, “or are you being told?”
I didn’t know what she meant, though, so I didn’t answer.
“One day Death will pay you a visit,” she continued, “but if you can tell the story of your life before Death tells its version—if you can tell it true—you can maybe keep on living.”
“Mr. Marsdale didn’t tell Death his story?” I asked.
“He might not have known that he could,” said my mother. “He might not have
All through school, the news was circulating. A heart attack while he was asleep the night before.
Blam,
his heart shuddered and he was gone like a snuffed-out candle. I sat through all the talk—in classrooms, in the cafeteria, on the bus ride home later that afternoon—listening to the ebb and flow of conversation around me, wondering if I’d somehow made it happen.
Because I’d seen something just the day before. Something that worried me. And because of that, I wondered if I had some kind of strange connection to Mr. Marsdale’s death. I wondered if what I’d done was something more than a prediction of it.
A man in a black suit had come into our classroom the day before, had looked Mr. Marsdale up and down like a cattle buyer contemplating a possible purchase. But no one else had seen this. Just me. I realized that after I’d interrupted Mr. Marsdale during his lesson to say, “Mr. Marsdale, who’s that man in the black suit standing beside you?” and everyone in the room had laughed at me behind their hands. I got a stern warning not to be disruptive. Then, later that night, Mr. Marsdale’s heart stopped beating.
Somehow I felt like I’d done it, had made it happen. Would he have died if I hadn’t seen the man in the black suit come to stand beside him? That awful man with stringy red hair and a beard that animals might have built nests in. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat with the smell of charcoal wafting off it, smoky and dark. Would Mr. Marsdale have died if I hadn’t said anything about it? If I hadn’t said out loud in class that I saw the man in the black suit standing right beside him?
My guts twisted throughout the school day, and when I got off the bus that afternoon, I ran into the house to complain to my mother. I told her that I couldn’t go back there; I told her I felt sick and didn’t belong there with everyone.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, her hands gripping my shoulders to steady me, her eyes pinched, shaking her head in confusion. “Aidan, where is all this coming from?”
So I told her what I’d seen during history, how the man in the black suit had come into our classroom like anyone who worked at the school might have. Like he belonged there. I told her how he’d looked Mr. Marsdale up and down as if looking at a cow going to auction, as if he were evaluating the distribution of fat and muscle in Mr. Marsdale’s body. Would he be a good buy? I told her how I’d tried to call Mr. Marsdale’s attention to the man in the black suit, and how no one else but me could see him, and how the man in the black suit had looked straight at me and tipped his hat in my direction before exiting the room, leaving me shaking at my desk, nearly breathless.
When I finished, I looked up, choking on my tears a little, to find my mother staring out the window over the kitchen sink, entranced by something in the distance, across the creek, over in the orchard. She didn’t say anything right away, but finally she turned back to me and said, “He must not have told his story true, then.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, blinking away my last tears.
“Mr. Marsdale had a chance,” she said, “like any of us do.” She stopped then, and her eyes started to look inward to a place where I wouldn’t be able to reach her if she retreated any further. I had to prompt her to continue, asked her to go on, to keep her there in the room. “Are you telling your own story,” my mother finally asked me, “or are you being told?”
I didn’t know what she meant, though, so I didn’t answer.
“One day Death will pay you a visit,” she continued, “but if you can tell the story of your life before Death tells its version—if you can tell it true—you can maybe keep on living.”
“Mr. Marsdale didn’t tell Death his story?” I asked.
“He might not have known that he could,” said my mother. “He might not have
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