to think about Libby Weller. Add a worry onto that and
I figured I’d probably crash into a tree or something.
I stepped up onto her porch and rapped on the door.
“Mrs. Dinsmore?” I called.
“I’m alive, Lucas,” she called back.
“That’s good to hear, ma’am.”
“It’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”
“Pretty much, ma’am. Yeah.”
“Then go run.”
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I made eye contact with the dogs and launched myself
from the porch, and then we were off.
We hadn’t gotten more than an eighth of a mile before
it started to mist rain. That was unusual for June, to put
it mildly. First I slowed, thinking we might have to go
back. Then I thought, What the hell? It wasn’t cold—in fact, it was clammy and warm. So if I got wet … so what?
I ran faster, and the dogs kept pace with me, and
then the rain came down harder. Bigger drops. It made
all three of us blink and squint our eyes against it, but
we didn’t stop.
We ran all the way to the cemetery. Because I’d been
thinking about it. And I wanted to see it again. I wanted
to stand in front of those two grave markers again, now
that I knew who those two young people were, and
how they intersected with my life. I wanted to see what
I would feel.
The old yellow flowers had been taken away. They
had not been left there to wither. In their place were two
similar stalks, but blooming with purple flowers. They
looked like they must have come from the same garden
or shop as the last ones. Only the color had changed.
They looked fresh.
I read the names of the children again, but I can’t really
say what I felt. I didn’t know them, so I didn’t know what
to feel. But I did feel bad for the people who had known them. It was just obvious that I hadn’t gotten to be one
of them. Part of me regretted that. Painful as it must have
been, I felt as though I’d missed something important.
Then we shortened our run by jogging straight home
from there. Not because I was soaked to the skin, although
I was, but because the leaves and pine needles under my
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feet were getting too slippery. As I did, I let the tragedy
of the past fall away, and the excitement of my first date
come back in to replace it. Part of me felt bad about that.
But it happened all the same.
I came back at a light jog for the sake of safety, the
dogs trotting beside me. Halfway back to the cabin the
rain stopped, and the sun came out. Just like that. The
sky was blue everywhere except to the east, where the
clouds had gone.
Mrs. Dinsmore was outside the cabin when we got
there. She was around the side of the place, standing on
a short stepladder cleaning the windows with a rag. The
same windows I’d looked through when I’d seen her that
first time. When I thought I might be looking at a corpse.
And I wasn’t far enough from wrong, either.
She turned partway when she saw me.
“I hate dirty windows,” she called to me. “Especially
water-spotted ones. What’s the point of living out in the
middle of nature if you can’t even have a good look at it
out your windows?”
I didn’t answer. Just moved closer and watched her
work for a minute.
Then I said, “Can I get your advice about something?”
“I suppose.”
“If you’re going to take a person to a movie, and this
person says it’s up to you to pick which movie, how do
you pick? I mean, how do you know how to pick so you
don’t end up with something this person’ll hate?”
She wrapped up her work on the window right about
then. Stuffed the rag into her overalls pocket. As she backed down off the stepladder, she looked right into my face.
“So that’s why you’re grinning like a damn fool,” she said. “You have yourself a date with a girl.”
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I hadn’t known I was grinning. But when she said
that, I checked my own face. You know, from behind.
And I do think I might have had some of that “nervous
mother had been staring at me over dinner the night be-
fore. It had been just the two of us. My father had been
late coming home from work, and my mother didn’t like
him nearly enough anymore to hold dinner.
“I do have a date,” I said. “And I just thought you
might be able to help me with the picking problem.
Because I’m not a girl. And you are. Or you were. Or,
anyway … you’re female, is what I mean to say.” I felt
my words get stumbly and my face hot. “I guess I really
stepped in something with that, didn’t I?”
“Your good intentions will excuse it this time. Did
you look in the paper or call the theater to see what’s
playing over in Blaine?”
Blaine had the closest theater. Three screens. Ashby
was too small to have a theater. Not even a one-screener.
“I did, yeah.”
“So what are your choices?”
“There’s that western with John Wayne. And then
there’s a scary one. I forget the title, but it’s supposed to be really bloody. And then the one about the little VW
Beetle car that talks. Or maybe it doesn’t talk. Maybe it
just flies or something. I saw a trailer for it, but I don’t remember much about it now.”
“Interesting,” she said. She folded up the stepladder.
Tucked it under her arm. “An interesting set of options.”
“Interesting how?”
I walked with her to the shed to put the stepladder
away. That seemed to be the only way I was going to
get my advice.
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“Because each choice says a lot about you as a date.
Let’s say you choose the western. I can’t say for a fact that this gal doesn’t like westerns. Some girls might. But she’s
less likely to enjoy them than you are. And even if she
does, choosing the boy movie might be seen as a way of
saying, ‘Well, you let me have my choice, so I just chose
what I wanted.’ Might come off a little selfish. Now, a lot of boys’ll pick the horror flick for a date. Even though that runs the risk of putting her in a terrible mood and
making her have an upsetting time. Know why they
might pick that one anyway?”
I stopped outside the shed and waited for her.
“No, ma’am. I don’t think I do.”
“Because they’re hoping for the girl to snuggle in close
when she gets scared. But here’s the thing you need to
know about girls: We’re not stupid. We know about how
boys do that on purpose. We can figure stuff out. So you
run the risk of her thinking you’re only after one thing.”
“I’m not,” I said, disturbed by my motives being
questioned even in casual conversation.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “But you don’t want her
; to get the wrong impression.”
“So, the Love Bug one.”
“Sounds like a safe choice. It’s a comedy, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s good, I think. A comedy. That sends
the message that you want her to have a nice time. That
you’re trying to make a fun date for her.”
We started back toward the cabin together.
I felt layers of stress dropping away with every
step. It was so easy. Just take her to see the Love Bug
movie. I couldn’t believe I’d wasted half the night tossing
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and turning over something that had proved to be so
simple.
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s good advice.”
“Worth it to have somebody call me a girl again,” she
said. “It’s been a while.”
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CHAPTER EIGHT
The Key
I knocked on Libby’s door promptly at six. And by prompt-
ly I mean I’d walked around the block for ten minutes,
glancing obsessively at my watch. Then I’d stood on her
welcome mat watching the second hand tick around to the
top of the hour. It was all downright silly, looking back.
I was wearing clean khaki pants that I’d pressed myself,
and a short-sleeved white shirt. And a necktie. Probably
overkill, but that was me at fourteen. Overkill Boy.
Besides, I knew I was going to have to meet her par-
ents first. She’d told me.
Libby answered the door, and the way she smiled
at me made my knees wobbly. I had to pay attention to
standing steady.
She was wearing her hair long and straight, falling
around her shoulders, and a peachy-colored, off-the-
shoulders light dress, like a sundress. It had high short
sleeves and a short skirt, and once again I had to work
hard not to stare at the wrong places.
“Sorry about this,” she said, tossing her head back over
her shoulder to indicate something in the house behind
her. I knew what she meant. She was embarrassed that
her parents insisted on meeting me. “They’re kind of old
fashioned that way.”
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“It’s not a problem,” I said.
She stepped back and I walked in.
It was true and it wasn’t true, what I’d said. I under-
stood her parents wanting to meet me. She was their only
daughter. And who was I, after all? It was a small town,
of course, so I wasn’t a literal stranger to them. They
probably could have picked me out of a crowd and told
you my name and who my parents were, along with what
my father did for a living. But we had never sat down
and talked, so I guess they weren’t sure enough of who
I had grown up to be. So I got where they were com-
ing from. But it was a problem—to me, anyway. It made me so nervous that, if I made the mistake of stopping to
think about it, I felt like my seams were unraveling all
down the inside of me.
I took a deep breath and followed her into the living
room. And I forcefully put all the fear and insecurity stuff aside. Just locked it out for the time being.
Her parents stood to greet me, and I stepped up to
each one of them, starting with her mom, and shook their
hands with pretend confidence.
“Mrs. Weller,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”
I was careful that my grip was firm when shaking her
father’s hand. Not aggressive or challenging. Just firm.
“Mr. Weller. Pleased to meet you.”
They motioned for me to sit.
I perched on the edge of the couch, trying to look
less nervous than I felt, and Libby sat close to my left hip.
“So you’re Bart and Ellie Painter’s boy,” her father
said. He was smoking a filterless cigarette, high up in
the crook between his first and second fingers, and it was
burning dangerously low.
“Yes, sir.”
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Catherine Ryan Hyde
“How are your parents?”
“Very good, sir. Thank you for asking.”
They weren’t very good. They were never very good.
But that’s not what you say when a grown-up asks.
“And you’re their older boy?”
Libby’s mother answered for me. She was sitting in a
stuffed wing chair with wild paisley upholstery, smooth-
ing her skirt with her hands as though she just realized
she’d forgotten to iron it.
“No, honey, their older boy is Leroy and he’s overseas.
Remember?”
“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, son. I have trouble keeping
the local boys straight. You know our Darren just got
home from overseas.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I did know about that.”
“I guess word gets around,” he said. Then he let an
awkward pause fall. “Well, enough pleasantries. Let’s get
right down to it. What will you two young people be
doing when you walk out our door tonight?”
“Well, sir. We’re going to walk down to the bus stop
on the corner. Catch the thirty-three line into Blaine and
get off at the Triplex Theater. See a movie. Afterwards
we can get a soda or an ice cream if Libby wants one.
And then I’ll bring her right home. Shouldn’t be later
than nine thirty or ten, even with the soda.”
“And what are you planning to see?” Mrs. Weller asked.
“I was thinking we’d see that Herbie the Love Bug
movie. About the car that…” I still didn’t remember
exactly what the car did that was so different. But it was
no ordinary car. “…kind of has a mind of its own.”
Mrs. Weller sat back in her chair in a gesture that I can
only describe as satisfied. She had been leaning slightly
forward, as if grilling me. And the grilling had just ended.
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I had passed the test.
“Well, I think that’s a very good choice,” she said.
“I’ve heard it’s funny. And it’s a very wholesome film. I
think it speaks well of you to choose it. I was afraid you
were going to say you intended to see that awful slasher
movie.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t like all the blood and gore.”
“You two have a good time, then,” Mr. Weller said.
Which meant I had passed his test as well.
A silence fell, but it wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful
and encouraging. As if nothing more needed to be said.
In that moment I was filled with a feeling. I doubt I
had words for it at the time, but even then I could’ve told
you it had something to do with Zoe Dinsmore.
I have words for it now. Zoe Dinsmore had solved
the riddle of the movie for me. And now, having won
Libby’s parents’ approval with that choice, I felt as though Mrs. Dinsmore had pressed a key into my hand, and that
key had just opened up some secret part of the universe
that had always been a mystery to me. Sounds like an
exaggeration, but I guess you’d have to know how utterly
baffled I’d been by life up until then.
A movement caught my eye, and I l
ooked up to see
Darren leaning in the doorway to the living room. The
movement had been his final hop.
He had no crutches with him, and he was wearing
only white boxer shorts and a short-sleeved white under-
shirt. My eyes went straight down to his missing leg. I
couldn’t help it. It was bandaged, and it looked too narrow
at the end to be a full-size calf like the one on the other
side. It was weirdly tapered. But the shocking thing to
me was not what was above the line of amputation, but
what was below it.
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Catherine Ryan Hyde
Nothing.
Funny how we get so adjusted to exactly what we
should see on every human body we encounter. And
then when it’s missing, it’s just … well, I already said
“shocking,” but it’s really the only word that fits the bill.
He also had a lot of scarring on the exposed parts of his
legs. Places that you could see had recently held stitches.
I forced my eyes up to his face again.
Everybody stood—Libby and both of her parents—so
I stood, too. It seemed to be in response to Darren’s pres-
ence, but I wasn’t sure why. It was something like the
way men stand when a lady walks into the room, but it
had a different feel to it. A darker feel.
“Darren, honey,” Mrs. Weller said, “we have company,
and you’re not dressed.”
“Come ’ere,” Darren said. But not to his mother. He
was ignoring her entirely. He was staring straight at me.
I didn’t move at first. I was feeling frozen.
He said it again.
“No, really. Come ’ere. Don’t make me go over there.
It’s too hard.”
I walked to where he stood leaning in the doorway,
steadying himself on the frame. I was afraid, but I didn’t
know why. Afraid of him, afraid of what he might be
about to say. Afraid of what he knew about what my
brother was going through. I couldn’t even sort it all out
in my head.
I stopped and stood in front of him, feeling like I
owed it to him to let him say or do whatever he had on
his mind. I just opened myself up to that moment.
When he spoke, his voice was soft and low. Nothing
like before.
“How’s Roy doing?”
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“I think…,” I began. Then I realized I wasn’t going
to lie to him. Or even smooth down the truth. He knew
too much. And he deserved more. “I think he’s having