Secret Brother Read online

  “You’d better go upstairs and rest a bit, Clara Sue,” he said now, and started around his desk. “I’ll look in on you later when I return.”

  “Where are you going, Grandpa?”

  He paused. I could see he was debating what to say. “I have to go to the funeral parlor,” he began. “Then I have to go back to the hospital.”

  “The hospital? Why, Grandpa? Are you going to see Willie? I want to go, too.”

  “I’m not going to see Willie,” he said. “There’s nothing more I can do for Willie.”

  “Then why are you going to the hospital? To pay a bill?”

  He almost smiled. “No,” he said. He pressed his lips together for a moment like someone who was trying to keep words locked in, and then he said the strangest thing. “Your grandmother wants me to go back.”

  “What?”

  “For that other little boy,” he said. He had the strangest expression on his face, stranger than I had ever seen. “She was with me the whole time. She comforted me about Willie, but she practically whispered in my ear when I looked in at that other little boy.”

  “The poisoned boy?”

  “Yes, the poisoned boy.”

  “Why?”

  “No one can be more traumatized than that little boy.”

  I could feel my eyelids narrow. Rage that had been subdued under wave after wave of heavier grief was rising up. Grandma Arnold used to say that Willie and I were the most traumatized that children could be because we had lost both our parents in a terrible accident.

  “He has no one, Clara Sue,” Grandpa said, seeing the confusion and anger in my face. “You remember how your grandmother felt about grief-stricken children. There’s no one here for him—or anywhere, it seems. I’m going to make sure he gets the best medical treatment.”

  I knew in my heart of hearts that this act of kindness was something to be proud of my grandfather for doing, but it just didn’t seem like the right time to be doing anything for anyone else. Everyone should be doing things for us now.

  Suddenly, I hated this strange little boy. Why would anyone blame me? I wanted to devote all my energy and strength, and I wanted Grandpa to devote all of his, to mourning my brother. I didn’t want anyone else stepping onto his stage, his final place in our lives. Willie deserved every moment of our attention. Worrying about someone else’s child, especially that of someone who didn’t care about his or her own child, denied my brother what he deserved. But I could see that Grandpa was determined to do this—and all because he believed my grandmother had appeared like a ghost and whispered in his ear?

  Where did this come from? My grandfather wasn’t a particularly spiritual man. He wasn’t one to believe in miracles of any kind. It was my grandma Lucy who had persuaded him to go to church occasionally, and after she died, he wouldn’t go to any church except for funerals and weddings. If anything, the tragedies in our lives had made him more cynical. He was always impatient with the minister’s “stock talk,” as he called it. “They don’t know any more than we do about why this world is the way it is,” he often mumbled, maybe more out of pain than anger.

  I shook my head. Tears began to well up in my eyes. I thought I might start screaming again.

  Suddenly, he put his hands on my shoulders and looked firmly into my tearful eyes. Then he took my right hand firmly into his left hand. He was gripping so tightly that he was on the verge of hurting me, but I was afraid to move.

  “Do you realize, Clara Sue,” Grandpa whispered, “that the same hour your brother passed, this little boy was brought to the emergency room to fight for his life? That means something.” He repeated it in a whisper, looking past me as if he was talking about it with my dead grandmother. “That means something.”

  It would be a long time before it would mean anything remotely close to what he was suggesting to me.

  The truth be told . . .

  I never wanted it to.

  2

  I wasn’t sure whether My Faith had told Grandpa what happened to me that first night after the accident. I had awoken and thought I couldn’t breathe. It was like the room had closed in on me, all the walls had moved, and I was trapped inside a very small space. What had happened to Willie was truly more like a nightmare now. Who could blame me for hoping that was all it had been?

  I got out of bed and walked softly out of my room, moving like someone walking in her sleep, and was actually surprised to find myself outside Willie’s room. The door was closed, but I opened it and tiptoed in, hoping not to wake him. I saw that his bed was still unslept in, and I stood there staring at it for I don’t know how long before I began to cry, the pain in my stomach so fierce that I had to squat and hold myself. Apparently, no one had heard me leave my room. I lay down on my right side and kept my body folded tightly, my hand over my mouth, and I fell asleep again right there on the floor.

  My Faith discovered me much later. She had come up to my room because Myra had told her to see how I was. When she saw I wasn’t there, she came immediately to Willie’s room.

  “Oh, you poor child,” she said, kneeling down to embrace me when I opened my eyes. “You poor, poor child.”

  It had been a long time since I had cried in anyone else’s arms, my head snugly against anyone’s breast except my mother’s and my grandmother’s, but I couldn’t help it. My Faith helped me up and back to my room. She tucked me in, and I fell asleep again. I remained in bed all the following morning, anticipating Grandpa Arnold coming in to see me, but he never did. My Faith told me he had gone to see about Willie’s funeral and then to the hospital. I could see she didn’t know why he would return to the hospital, but I knew. It was surely about that boy.

  However, I had no idea what Grandpa Arnold was doing or planning for the poisoned boy. Apparently, because he had been brought in and left and was in a coma-like state, no one knew his name. I didn’t want to think about him anymore. I didn’t want to remember anything about him or the hospital. ­Despite my not finding Willie in his bed, my mind was still trying to reject reality. How many times can you survive your whole life being turned inside out and upside down? It had happened with my parents dying, it had happened when Grandma Arnold died, and now it was happening because of Willie’s death. I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror, thinking I might see Death hovering over my shoulder and smiling gleefully, especially after what Grandpa had said in his office, and there were mirrors everywhere in this house, on almost every wall, most of them antiques. It didn’t help to avoid looking left or right. You’d have to keep your eyes closed to escape your reflected image when you walked through the Arnold mansion.

  Myra came up to see me, despite how hard it was for her to navigate the stairs. She was upset that I hadn’t eaten any of my breakfast. I thought she might say something about my grandfather returning to the hospital, but all she talked about was how she and I had to be strong for him. I promised to eat something, mostly to please her, and then she went back down to her room to rest, but before she left, she assured me she wasn’t going to take any more of those dreadful pain pills: “They should call them ‘fog pills,’ because that’s where they put you.”

  When I had dressed and gone down, Myra was still trying to move about and see after the things that had to be done, despite her pain. I didn’t want to trouble her with any more of my questions about Grandpa. She looked like just the mention of something related to what had happened would drop her to her knees. I couldn’t stand watching all the preparation in anticipation of mourners. I returned to my room and finally decided to answer my phone when it rang. I knew it was Lila.

  “Everyone I speak to is devastated,” she began. “I started out for your house twice and broke down twice and had to go back. I wouldn’t have been any good to you.”

  “I understand.”

  “I can’t believe Willie will not be there when I do come.”

 
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I thought she knew it, knew the words were crashing together somewhere in the base of my throat.

  “I want to be there for you,” she said. “I really do!”

  “Come this afternoon,” I managed. “My uncle is arriving any moment.”

  “How is your grandfather?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet today.”

  Now she was the one who was silent.

  “He’s doing what he has to do,” I added, just to kill the silence.

  “Everyone, especially my parents, feels terrible for him to have suffered so many losses. And for you, too, of course.”

  “Thank them,” I said. I heard Uncle Bobby’s footsteps on the stairway. “I’ve got to go. I think my uncle has arrived.”

  “I’ll be there later,” she said.

  A few moments after I hung up, Uncle Bobby knocked on my door and then stepped in. I was sitting on my bed, my back against the pillows. He didn’t say hello first. He just embraced me and held me for a long time. I laid my head on his shoulder and cried, and I could hear him fighting back his own tears.

  “Hey, Clair de Lune,” he said. Because my name was Clara Sue, he said he always thought of me when he heard that song and told me that thinking of me was like remembering the most beautiful moonlight.

  “Hi,” I managed in a voice so small and unrecognizable that I thought it came from someone else.

  “Pretty unreal. All of it,” he said. I nodded. “You’re sure getting older. You look more and more like your mother,” he continued.

  “Do I?”

  “Your dad was a handsome guy, but I think you’re lucking out looking like my sister, with your auburn hair and those hazel eyes. You have her button nose. You’re her height, too. What are you, five-six, seven?”

  “Seven,” I said.

  “You should be on the cover of teen magazines. Of course, I’m a little biased about it.”

  He tried a smile, but he couldn’t hold it long, and I couldn’t help him by smiling back. He held on to my left foot and stared down at the bed. I thought Uncle Bobby had the kind of face that would never look old. He hadn’t gained an ounce since I had last seen him. He still had that soft-looking light brown hair, always a little too long for Grandpa’s taste, and those striking sea-blue eyes with eyelashes that I knew women envied. I was aware of how much he loved Willie, who, despite Grandpa’s attitude about the career he was pursuing, enjoyed Uncle Bobby’s singing and demonstrations of new dance steps. He even tried to imitate him. Uncle Bobby always brought interesting things to us whenever he did visit—dolls from countries he had gone to for shows, toys that were handmade, simple things like magic boxes and puzzles and hand-painted yo-yos.

  “Is Grandpa back yet?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “You know where he is and what he’s doing?” I said. From the way he stared at me and from how his eyes were darkening, I realized he knew.

  “I don’t think he’s himself right now. Who could blame him?”

  “Do you know about the poisoned boy? Do you know all he’s doing for this strange little boy?”

  “Yes. He told me when I called him before I left St. Louis,” he said.

  “He told you? I don’t understand, Uncle Bobby. Why is he so concerned about him? Why isn’t he thinking more about Willie?”

  “He’s thinking about him, too. He’s just . . . afraid,” Uncle Bobby said. I couldn’t imagine a stranger thing for him to have said.

  “Afraid? Grandpa Arnold? Of what?”

  “Of dying of sadness. You’re the only one left whom he really loves.”

  “He loves you!”

  “Only because he has to, because I’m his son, but it was really only you and Willie after my sister and my mother died. Now he’s lost Willie, and he’s like a ship that’s taken on too much water. I think he’s lost and confused, too, but today I realized he thinks that saving the little boy will help him save himself and continue to give him the strength he needs to be here for you, too.”

  I smirked. How could a stranger’s future make any difference for me now?

  “It’s true, Clara Sue. He’s mostly angry right now, and he wants to strike back at something. I know my dad. He doesn’t accept defeat, even when it’s staring him right in the face. He wants revenge.”

  “What do you mean? What revenge? On whom? The truck driver?”

  “That, too, I’m sure, but mostly on death,” he said. He looked away.

  “I don’t care. He should be here, with us, not at a hospital worrying about a boy he knows nothing about. You know he told me that Grandma told him to take care of the boy?”

  Uncle Bobby looked up quickly. “He said that? He didn’t tell me that.”

  “He said he could hear her whisper in his ear at the hospital.”

  He thought a moment, and then his lips did relax into a small smile. “Maybe my old man is softening up,” he said. He didn’t look upset about it anymore.

  “People are calling and starting to come over, and he’s not even here yet. His secretary, Mrs. Mallen, is here in his office handling Willie’s funeral like it’s a truck delivery. Myra won’t tell Grandpa, but she told me she heard Mrs. Mallen arguing about prices with the funeral director.”

  “We’ll take over for him and hold down the fort until he gets here,” he said, rising. “Let’s go down and have something to eat. I see My Faith has whipped up her wonderful fried chicken.”

  “Willie loved it the most.”

  “Well, we’ll eat it for him, then. Come on, Clara Sue. Let’s be together. I need you by my side,” he said, holding out his hand. I knew he was saying that to make me feel better. The truth was, I needed him by my side and not vice versa.

  I couldn’t say no to him for anything anyway. I put on my shoes again and took his hand, and we walked out of my room and down the hallway, both of us deliberately avoiding looking into Willie’s room. Some of Grandpa’s friends and business associates had begun to arrive to comfort him. Uncle Bobby greeted them and simply told them Grandpa was out making the arrangements for Willie and would be back very soon. He did not mention the poisoned boy. We looked at each other after he spoke. He didn’t have to tell me not to say anything about it. I wouldn’t if I could.

  Grandpa arrived a little while later and began to talk to people. He tried ordering Myra back to her room, but by now, she was almost herself again. With my brother killed and her arm in a cast and a sling, people were even more frightened of seeing those eyes turned in their direction. Both Grandpa and I knew she was far too stubborn to stay in her room recuperating. Despite what Grandpa had told her, it was easy to see that she still carried some guilt for what had happened to Willie. It was written across her wrinkled brow: if only she had not taken him with her. She would think about that all her life, even though no one would blame her.

  When Lila arrived, I had never been so happy to see her. I wanted to get away from the older people, who were all looking at me with such pity in their eyes that I had to take deep breaths to keep from crying hysterically. Uncle Bobby tried to console me as much as possible, but people were pulling him away with their questions about his musical career and talking about anything they could that would avoid mentioning the horrible tragedy. It was almost as if they would stop when someone said something and then raise their eyebrows with curiosity, as if they were thinking, Oh? Little Willie was killed?

  No wonder I took Lila’s hand quickly and led her to the stairway so we could rush up to my room and close the door. I felt like I was rising out of a bigger and wider grave than the one Willie would be laid in tomorrow. The first thing we did in my room was hug each other.

  “Don’t cry,” I warned her, pointing at her. “If you start, I won’t stop.”

  She swallowed back her tears and nodded. Then, as we often did, we lay be
side each other on my bed and looked up at the embossed circles swirling on my ceiling. She reached for my hand. I closed my eyes because I was getting dizzy.

  “I can’t imagine what you went through at the hospital,” she began. “I thought about it all night and couldn’t sleep. How hard it must have been to look at him.”

  “I never did,” I said. “My grandfather did. He was in the room when they were trying to save Willie, but he didn’t take me there to look at him.” I paused, then opened my eyes and added, “He took me to see another little boy.”

  “What? What other boy?”

  “The poisoned boy,” I said, and then I told her some of what my grandfather had said and what I knew he was doing for the boy.

  She was silent, thinking. “He probably doesn’t know which way to turn or what to do,” she finally concluded.

  “That’s what my uncle Bobby thinks, but my grandfather has always been in control of everything. He always knows what to do.”

  “Well, you can’t be angry at him for trying to help someone.”

  “Now? Now he tries?”

  “What else can he do for—” She stopped herself and turned away, but she didn’t have to finish her sentence. It was one of those sentences that finish themselves, like a launched rocket you couldn’t turn back.

  “For Willie,” I muttered. “What else could he do for him? He could think of nothing and no one else but him, just like me.”

  “I know. Did the boy say anything to him?”

  “What difference does that make?” I snapped back at her.

  She bit her upper lip as if to keep herself from saying another word.