Hidebehind

Thirty-Four

Too much was in my brain. The three words: blanket, car, cellar. They ran over and over, like horses on a track. And then what had happened with Maisie and Alex. I was sure, now, that the monster was still out there, whatever it was. And I determined right then and there never to go into those woods again. I'd been sitting in my room about half an hour with my mind on fire when Great Grandma knocked at the door. It was almost eight o'clock.

I said nothing as she let herself in anyway and sat down at the foot of my bed, where I'd been muddling over everything since I'd gotten home.

"I'm not a terrible person to talk to, Robbie," she said, giving me a meaningful look that I just didn't have room for in my head. "You didn't even eat dinner." She waited for an answer, but her wait was in vain. "I know this hasn't been easy for you, with your parents, and the school, and this new life with two old dinosaurs."

Another pause.

"I'm worried about you," she picked up. "You haven't made much effort to be friendly with anyone. You certainly didn't treat Alex like a friend right now—he and his sister sped off like jack rabbits the second they got here. I've known the Francis family for a long time. That Alex is a good boy."

I imagined my eyes burning a hole in the quilt I was staring at. "It's . . . complicated. He's kind of been a jerk."

"I thought that was over and done with. You've got to forgive, Rob. Give him more of a chance, all right?"

Why did she like him so much? Why did everybody seem to like him? I turned to look her in the face. "He's the one that broke your shelf, you know? In that green room! He was the one that broke all that junk."

I must have surprised her with that one, because she fumbled for words before saying, "Well, I had no idea anything was broken. I'll have to take a look at that."

Of course she hadn't noticed. Nobody noticed anything around there. I was angry at myself for even telling her; then again, it felt sort of good to show her that Alex Francis wasn't some perfect angel or whatever she and everyone else thought he was. I realized in disappointment that I had spoken to Great Grandma, and then that she hadn't even acted like it was a big deal, which had led me to say more. I was even more angry with Alex—he'd made me talk. Didn't even have to be in the room, but conversation turned to him, and there I was, opening my mouth.

I got up and went to the window, looked out into the darkness. I saw the bedroom behind me reflected on the glass and Great Grandma still sitting on my bed, probably wondering whether anything else could be said. My eyes could barely make out the dim lining of the dead peach trees, and as I saw them, Grandpa's comment came to my mind—one from days ago . . .

"How did Great Grandpa Luther die?"

Great Grandma waited so long to respond that I thought she hadn't heard me, and I watched her reflection in the window for a sign that I should repeat myself, but then she asked, "Now where did that question come from?"

Her tone softened me. "I . . . I don't know. Grandpa told me he was buried in the peach trees. Is that true?"

"Yes, he's out there."

"No grave marker?"

"Those trees are his tombstone."

"Yeah, well they're all dead."

She started to protest, but I turned and cut her off.

"How'd he die?"

She looked hard at me, like she was trying to decide if she should tell me what I wanted to know. At length, she said, "Well, it happened a very long time ago—I want you to remember that. I don't feel upset about it anymore, you understand?"