Dylan, p.4
Dylan, page 4
After Aunt Agnes left, Shirley stepped out of the state room dabbing at her eyes as if something was in them.
“Catching cold?” I asked. I know my question was mean, but this was Shirley and if those were real tears, and she had really cared about Uncle Jim she might have stopped by to see him while he was still alive. Not just in his coffin. Uncle Jim was good to all the family, to her too, but because he was old and in a wheel chair, Shirley never wanted to give him any time.
She brushed past me, bumping me a little on the way. I ignored her, slipped inside the state room and carefully closed the door.
The room was lit by the sun seeping through a large stained-glass window of red and gold design. A candle in a gold candelabra burned on the wooden platform above his coffin and an American flag was folded neatly on a table next to the altar. The atmosphere in there was heavy, creepy almost, but I wasn’t going to let that bother me. This was Uncle Jim. I had nothing to be afraid of. The thick red carpet muted my footsteps as I walked up to the casket.
Man, I felt odd looking at him like that, like I was in a Steven King movie or something. So quiet, so still. Closed eyes. He wore a dark navy-blue suit too. I’d never seen him in that suit. He had a white carnation tucked in his pocket, and silver cufflinks on his cuffs, just like mine.
I ignored the sick in my stomach. I didn’t like being around dead people. I’d never been to a funeral before. I shouldn’t feel nauseous because this was Uncle Jim and I love Uncle Jim. I took his hand. Choking back tears, I started calling on my magic right away because I knew I would have to make this fast. I didn’t want someone to walk in on us. The tingling came quickly. From experience, I found that the more I wanted something the faster the power came. Heat filled me, and soon my left hand throbbed, and there was even some iridescent color beaming out of my fingers.
“Uncle Jim,” I said to him, and touched his face with the palm of my left hand. “You can get up now.” I felt the magic travel from my fingers to his collar. I closed my eyes shut, wanting even harder than anything in the world to bring him back. I wanted so badly to have Uncle Jim here again that I thought I saw his chest rise when I opened my eyes.
“Uncle Jim!” I said.
He just lay there. The silence hit me like a bomb. It was so still in that room. I was acutely aware of the smell of roses from the flowers around his coffin. Another smell too coming from him, probably what they used to embalm him with and then that sick feeling returned. “Uncle Jim?” I said again and looked at his eyes. They were shut, not tight because that would have meant he was closing them himself. I thought I heard a voice in my head, so I listened. I swear the voice was Uncle Jim’s.
“Dylan, everything is okay, now. I’m in a better place,” he said, or so I thought. “I’m not coming home anymore.”
That was all I heard. My heart sank, and reality hit me, after which the magic left, and I was touching the face of a cold corpse. I realized then this shell wasn’t Uncle Jim. He was gone to that better place.
I wiped the wet from my eyes and swallowed the other tears that were trying to force their way out. My magic wasn’t going to bring Uncle Jim back. Nothing was.
WHEN THE SERVICE WAS over Aunt Agnes, Shirley, and a few of my other cousins that I didn’t know very well stood around outside in front of the chapel talking. I stood with them, but no one said anything to me. They all gossiped about how much they were going to miss Uncle Jim, and what a good man he was and that it was sad to see him die. They kind of argued over who knew him better, whose was his favorite. I don’t remember Uncle Jim mentioning any of them.
“Someone could give Dylan a ride back to the house while we go to the graveside,” Aunt Agnes suggested.
“Not me, what about you Pete,” Shirley chimed in.
“I’m parked behind everyone. Can’t get out,” Pete said.
“So, what do we do with Dylan?” Shirley whispered, and then glanced at me. I was used to this treatment, but today I felt I should say something.
“Why don’t you ask me what I want to do?” I said right to Shirley’s face. She gave me a dirty look and turned her back to me. I was used to people talking around me, still it would have been nice to be asked, being as I was the one who’d taken care of Uncle Jim for the last few years.
“What do you want to do?” Pete finally asked. Pete was Shirley’s age, good looking and had bright blue eyes, brighter than Shirley’s. His black suit was neatly pressed, and his hair combed back behind his big ears.
“I want to go to the cemetery,” I told him, shocking the ladies out of their high heels. Funny no one argued with me, they just pointed me to a car and I got in. The smell of everyone’s perfume and after-shave all mixed together in that limousine was difficult to handle. Thank goodness Uncle Jim was getting buried outside where the air was fresh, and I could stand away from the crowd and not get sick.
I stood behind the crowd that encircled the grave, and the coffin with my uncle’s casket hovering over it. Hard to think that my best and only friend was going into that hole and I would never see him again. I choked up but bit my lip to keep from making a scene. The preacher talked about loving people while we’re here on earth. Uncle Jim had told me the same thing before he died. I should find someone to love, he said. I should surround myself with people who love me. And then he left me.
Uncle Jim should have been a preacher, I think. He would have made a good one.
Everyone said amen and then scattered to their cars. I stood there for a little bit waiting for the casket to be lowered into the hole, like they do in the movies. I guess they use heavy equipment these days, so nothing happened while I stood there. Shirley came back for me, tugging at me.
“Come on, Dylan. There’s lots of work to do now.”
I whispered one last goodbye to Uncle Jim.
Chapter 5
The Crashing Surf
I might as well be one of those old oyster shells strewn across the beach on a foggy morning; shattered to pieces by crashing waves–my insides coarse and hollow because too many people had come by and pried me open with their knives, gobbling up my guts. I didn’t know which was worse; the cracked and empty shells piled upon one another chipping at the mercy of the pounding breakers, or my hands bleeding and aching from cracking the shells, salt and sand being chafed into them, grinding itching pain.
That’s me when Aunt Agnes and cousin Shirley came to the house and started taking all of Uncle Jim’s things. I didn’t care about some of the stuff. Uncle Jim and I talked about throwing a lot of our old junk away, like the newspapers piled up in the corner, or the clothes that the two of us went through and said we were going to give to the poor but never did. Uncle Jim had been collecting old war relics that only he could want. I didn’t know what half of them were. But when Aunt Agnes and Shirly started packing the clothes he wore every day, I couldn’t let that happen. I grabbed his Cammy coat from Shirley and she tugged back.
“Stop being so stubborn, Dylan,” she said. “Unless you want to do all this work by yourself, which you should have been doing all along, let mom and I clean up. This place is disgusting.”
“You can’t take his coat. He needs his coat,” I said, not really knowing what I was saying. I wasn’t smart, but I knew that when someone dies that’s the end of them. I’d been to the funeral and I saw his body and knew he was gone. He wasn’t going to get cold again. But all his stuff didn’t have to disappear, too. “I need his coat,” I corrected myself, so I didn’t sound like an idiot. “I don’t mind having his stuff here. There’s room in the closet for his belongings, none of his stuff would be in my way.” I looked at Aunt Agnes, hoping she’d relent and stop putting everything in boxes.
“Dylan,” she said in that condescending voice. “Everything has to go. Even your things. The house has to be empty.”
I stood there with my mouth open and I felt wet welling in my eyes. “No.” I said.
“Yes, Dylan. You have to go too.” Shirley’s voice resonated like an iron bell against my head. She bunched up the Cammy and stuffed the jacket in a box. I think she got some sort of satisfaction saying I had to go, too. Shirley never liked me. I could tell by the way she snickered whenever she saw me.
“No, I can stay here by myself,” I argued. “I can take care of myself. I’m fine.”
“Dylan, we’re selling the house. You’ll be living somewhere else.”
No one gave me any warning about that. Uncle Jim’s house never belonged to Aunt Agnes. We always talked about the property belonging to him and me. So, if he was gone, the house would be mine. I’d have a place to live for the rest of my life. “You don’t want this house. It’s just a shack. That’s what you always said.”
“A shack with ocean front property. Sorry Dylan. You’ll get some of the inheritance, but the house must go! We’ll find you a nicer place to live. I’ve been looking and have one scoped out. A place where you’ll be well cared for. You won’t even have to cook your meals.”
“I like to cook.”
“Come on Dylan, everyone knows if you were left in the kitchen alone you’d burn the house down,” Shirley interjected. I wanted to punch her, but I knew better.
“Shirley!” Aunt Agnes shot a dagger eye at her. “No need to rile him.” To me she spoke calmly, trying to patronize me. “It’s true you’ll get your meals, and someone will make sure you’re well kept.”
Well kept? I’m not a dog. I could only gape at the two, unable to defend myself because the words wouldn’t come.
“With one phone call, we can get you there, tonight even!” Shirley took an empty crate into the kitchen and started packing my pots and pans. I ran in there after her. By now I was boiling inside. Those were my tools. Whatever she put in her wooden milk crate, I pulled out. She grabbed the muffin tin out of my hand and I yanked it back, slamming the end accidentally against her nose. “Mother!” She cried out and I ran to my room, muffin tin in hand. That’s when I started shoving all my dirty clothes into my pack. Anything that would fit I rammed in there all balled up and wrinkled, like a crazy man. The muffin tin, too.
I heard them talking. “Don’t get into a fight with him. Just let him be. You know how angry he gets when he’s stressed. We’ll get him to the counselor as soon as we’re done here.” Aunt Agnes said.
“Better get him there now or we’ll never get done! I can’t take any more of this,” Shirley barked at her mother like a little kid even though she was a full-grown adult. Older than me.
I wanted to cry. I didn’t. Uncle Jim once told me when I get that mad to count to ten, so I counted. Two or three times. I wiped my tears with my sleeve before they streamed down my face. I counted again. Uncle Jim wanted me to do things slow so that they got done right, so I took a deep breath and sat on my bed, put my pack on my lap and pulled everything out with the intent to arrange things neatly. I got to the blue box down at the bottom and carefully lifted the package up. Aunt Agnes barged into the room just then, and I barely had time to cover the box on my lap with some dirty clothes.
“Pack your things, Dylan. Shirley will take you to the park. There’s no reason for you to be here right now.”
“I don’t want to go to the park,” is all I could manage to say.
Her lips thinned, and I could see she didn’t want an argument. “I’m not asking you Dylan. We’re all as upset as you. Just pack your things and we’ll take you to your new home.”
She left before I could think of a response. I’d sworn never to use magic in front of Aunt Agnes, much less Shirley, but I wanted to. Not my good magic either. The black kind that would lock them out of the house and out of my life forever.
But I didn’t. I kept my secret.
I thought about taking Annabella out of the box then, and just holding her because that would have been a comfort to me. She was the last thing Uncle Jim gave me and I could sense him speaking to me through her. I was afraid Aunt Agnes, or worse, cousin Shirley would burst into my room again if I did, though. They would take her from me, like Uncle Jim said they would, and I wouldn’t be able to handle that. I put the blue box back into my pack, and folded my clothes neatly, one by one, and placed them on top.
Chapter 6
Liona
I hated riding in the car with Shirley. She drove too fast, cut corners and passed everyone on the road. Besides, she snapped at me whenever I asked her a question, so I didn’t talk. I just sat quietly and hung onto my seat all tense and held my breath when she raced through a yellow light. She was in a hurry to drop me off, I could tell. Frankly the feeling was mutual.
Elwood Estates wasn’t too far from my uncle’s house. We had to cross through two towns to get there by car, but if you walked up the beach and around the cliff they call Windy Point you’d come to Elwood Estates in an hour’s time. I used to walk that way from Uncle Jim’s house. The neighborhood was lush and green with big homes and big yards. Only rich people lived there, and old people who bought their houses a long time ago when property was cheap. Stone structures with brick chimneys that spouted little puffs of grey smoke and smelled like Christmas. Big trees guarded the yards. Every house had a porch. The city put in old fashioned streetlamps along the sidewalk so at night you’d think you were in a movie like It’s a Wonderful Life. Ivy covered the yards where people didn’t want to mow, and white picket fences held up honeysuckle vines. The homes were set far apart and some of the driveways disappeared into the forest, so you couldn’t tell there was a residence except for the mailbox at the head of the drive, or a big iron gate. Shirley slowed down and stuck her head out the window.
“Let me know if you see a mailbox that reads 6773, Dylan. That’s the address. You can read numbers, can’t you?”
“I can read numbers,” I said, growling under my breath. “I graduated high school, remember? I’m not completely stupid.” I rolled down my window and squinted at the mailboxes but the ones I saw didn’t have numbers on them.
“There it is.” She made a sharp left-hand turn into a dirt driveway surrounded by all sorts of vegetation. Cedar and hemlock trees, wild rhododendrons and ivy grew along the lane. The car rumbled up over rocks and roots and into potholes. We twisted and turned and finally arrived at a very large gray, two-story house whose many trusses met at interesting points, with attic windows peeking curiously over the yard. Moss covered the roof in places and a red brick chimney confirmed there was a fireplace. That was one good thing. I liked fireplaces. Uncle Jim’s house had a fireplace. We would roast hotdogs over the fire when it rained. When we came to a stop, Shirley jumped out, slammed the door and opened the trunk. “This is it. This is your new home.”
I sat in the car and tried to collect my thoughts. I wasn’t as anxious to step into this new world as much as Shirley was to have me out of hers. Aunt Agnes had told me I’d be going to a group home. To me, that meant a house full of strangers. I’m not good at making friends and socializing. I’m a private kind of person. The whole business of leaving my house by the sea, where I could have lived peacefully alone, in trade for living with a bunch of people I didn’t know, repulsed me.
“Come on Dylan, get out of the car.” Shirly had my suitcase in her hand and stood in-between me and the mansion, an impatient pout on her face. “What are you waiting for?”
That’s when the door to the house opened and a middle-aged woman stepped out. She wore blue sweat pants and a sweat shirt that matched, had gray hair cut short, partially hidden under a baseball cap. She had a plump face and a cheerful smile. “You must be the van Pelens.”
“Not me.” Shirly was quick to detach herself from my name”. I’m Shirley Barber. My cousin sitting in the car is Dylan van Pelen and he’s your new resident.” Shirley couldn’t get my suitcase into the house quick enough. She rushed up the porch steps, her blond curls bouncing. I sat and watched until the woman came down the stairs and started walking toward me.
“Ah! Dylan, my name is Mrs. Wright! Good to have you.”
I opened the car door, not wanting to look like a fool or a pouty child. I also didn’t feel like smiling and being friendly, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t take her hand either when she offered to shake mine. Why would I want to touch anyone? I wished I were a tortoise with a shell to crawl into.
“Oh, you’re a shy one I see,” she kept on. “That’s okay. You aren’t the first one we’ve had like that.”
One what? Right away I knew I was going to hate living here.
She turned to Shirley as my cousin set my suitcase by the door and followed Mrs. Wright to the car.
“Sorry he’s such a dunce,” Shirly said, acting as though she were joking. I knew she wasn’t.
Mrs. Wright waved the comment away. “Oh, he’s no dunce. Just timid is all. He’ll get used to being here. Everyone does sooner or later.” She gave me a big smile and offered her hand again. “Come on, Dylan. Let’s go inside. I’ll show you your room.”
My stomach rolled, and I fought back a gag. If Shirley hadn’t taken my sleeve and dragged me out of the car, I probably would have run into the woods and thrown up. Nevertheless, if I didn’t want to look like a wimp, I had to follow her. I pulled my pack from the front seat of the car and slung one strap over my shoulder. I freed my arm from my cousin and walked behind her and Mrs. Wright. They both chatted nonsense. The weather. The traffic. They talked about me, too, but I gave their gossip no mind. I was used to people talking as if I didn’t exist. In a way, the invisibility made life easier because I could ignore them.
The porch had a pleasant smell. Potted plants lined the railing. Red geraniums and petunias draped from hanging baskets. A rustic, old, wooden swing hung by two chains near the entrance of the house. I paused for a moment and touched the chain, causing it to rock ever so slightly. I would like to sit on the swing someday, maybe, and rock back and forth. That is, if I must stay here. If I find no way out.
