equally heavy, and hard to maneuver.
In spite of the cold, everybody was still outside.
Madison and Smithy were near the Jeep, staring at nothing. They looked very thin and young. They were not wearing jackets. They were shivering.
Aunt Cheryl was out on the faded grass, reciting her story to a garden of microphones, which stuck up like metal flowers in her face. Tris, no longer crying, sat on the bottom step of the frontporch, absorbed by a favorite toy—a heavy-duty picture book with magnetized cardboard cars to drive around the illustrations. He had a cylinder of Oreo cookies that one of his sisters must have brought to keep him quiet.
Tris was weirdly alone: no aunt and no sister near him. Only television cameras. When Tris saw Jack, he broke into his beautiful smile and offered his brother a cookie. Unusually for a two-year-old, Tris loved to share. Jack made it over to his baby brother and lifted him up—Oreos, picture book, magnets and all.
Into Jack’s face was thrust a microphone held by a pretty blond woman Jack recognized from the local news. She was always pacing down the main street of some area town, asking how people felt about the weather or the price of gasoline. She leaned toward Jack. “How do you feel?” she said lovingly.
Jack’s eyes didn’t focus. That was how he felt.
He took a step toward his house, and she took one too, moving the microphone even closer. “Your baby brother killed your mother by being born. Now the same little brother has killed your father. How do you feel toward him?”
Jack dropped the toys, but not his brother, planning to smash the woman’s mouth and the terrible question she’d shoved at him. The officer blocked him, fast enough to stop Jack’s fist from connecting but not fast enough to camouflage the attempt. This moment was one of the most-watched videos on the Internet that week.
Now, at the exit to her day-care center, Mrs. Griz stands as close to Jack as that microphone was. “It’s so exciting,” she whispers. “TV crews right here!”
Tris loves words. He repeats anything Jack says, so if Jack is studying chemistry, and Tris sits with him, the next day he’ll hear Tris murmur, “Covalent. pH scale.” Jack cannot repeat anything Mrs. Griz says or Tris will pick it up. “Pretty neat, huh?” says Jack. “Be sure to get all the details ironed out,” he adds, going out the door. “I have a half day in school, so Tris and I are headed for a soccer game. Have a nice weekend.”
Outside, Jack lowers Tris into the child seat on the back of his bike. It takes forever to strap Tris in and get his helmet fastened, because Jack’s fingers have thickened and he fumbles. Tris wants to know what’s in Jack’s backpack, but Jack doesn’t feel like discussing it. Tris moves on to the secret adventure. “Smithy plays soccer. Are we going to see Smithy?”
When it all went down, Smithy enrolled herself in boarding school. Fourteen years old and she figured out how. Jack is still amazed. He never figured out anything. After the funeral, after Nonny and Poppy flew back to Missouri, Jack was possessed by the fear that he would somehow lose another member of his family. He didn’t go out for sports. When each school day was over, he rushed home to do a head count.
He was right to be afraid. In a matter of weeks, both his sisters left.
Tris mainly knows Smithy from the scrapbook. Jack can see Mom now, sitting up in bed, choosing photographs, writing captions, ensuring that her fourth baby would have something to remember her by. Tris sleeps with it, as if it’s a bunny or a blankie. The most-requested bedtime story is for Jack to go through the album. “And this is Daddy,” Jack will say, pointing. “And this isMommy. Here’s Madison playing tennis. Here’s Smithy playing soccer. And here is baby Tris.”
“We aren’t going to see Smithy today,” he tells Tris. Or ever, as far as Jack knows. Sometimes he misses his sisters so much he goes into
In spite of the cold, everybody was still outside.
Madison and Smithy were near the Jeep, staring at nothing. They looked very thin and young. They were not wearing jackets. They were shivering.
Aunt Cheryl was out on the faded grass, reciting her story to a garden of microphones, which stuck up like metal flowers in her face. Tris, no longer crying, sat on the bottom step of the frontporch, absorbed by a favorite toy—a heavy-duty picture book with magnetized cardboard cars to drive around the illustrations. He had a cylinder of Oreo cookies that one of his sisters must have brought to keep him quiet.
Tris was weirdly alone: no aunt and no sister near him. Only television cameras. When Tris saw Jack, he broke into his beautiful smile and offered his brother a cookie. Unusually for a two-year-old, Tris loved to share. Jack made it over to his baby brother and lifted him up—Oreos, picture book, magnets and all.
Into Jack’s face was thrust a microphone held by a pretty blond woman Jack recognized from the local news. She was always pacing down the main street of some area town, asking how people felt about the weather or the price of gasoline. She leaned toward Jack. “How do you feel?” she said lovingly.
Jack’s eyes didn’t focus. That was how he felt.
He took a step toward his house, and she took one too, moving the microphone even closer. “Your baby brother killed your mother by being born. Now the same little brother has killed your father. How do you feel toward him?”
Jack dropped the toys, but not his brother, planning to smash the woman’s mouth and the terrible question she’d shoved at him. The officer blocked him, fast enough to stop Jack’s fist from connecting but not fast enough to camouflage the attempt. This moment was one of the most-watched videos on the Internet that week.
Now, at the exit to her day-care center, Mrs. Griz stands as close to Jack as that microphone was. “It’s so exciting,” she whispers. “TV crews right here!”
Tris loves words. He repeats anything Jack says, so if Jack is studying chemistry, and Tris sits with him, the next day he’ll hear Tris murmur, “Covalent. pH scale.” Jack cannot repeat anything Mrs. Griz says or Tris will pick it up. “Pretty neat, huh?” says Jack. “Be sure to get all the details ironed out,” he adds, going out the door. “I have a half day in school, so Tris and I are headed for a soccer game. Have a nice weekend.”
Outside, Jack lowers Tris into the child seat on the back of his bike. It takes forever to strap Tris in and get his helmet fastened, because Jack’s fingers have thickened and he fumbles. Tris wants to know what’s in Jack’s backpack, but Jack doesn’t feel like discussing it. Tris moves on to the secret adventure. “Smithy plays soccer. Are we going to see Smithy?”
When it all went down, Smithy enrolled herself in boarding school. Fourteen years old and she figured out how. Jack is still amazed. He never figured out anything. After the funeral, after Nonny and Poppy flew back to Missouri, Jack was possessed by the fear that he would somehow lose another member of his family. He didn’t go out for sports. When each school day was over, he rushed home to do a head count.
He was right to be afraid. In a matter of weeks, both his sisters left.
Tris mainly knows Smithy from the scrapbook. Jack can see Mom now, sitting up in bed, choosing photographs, writing captions, ensuring that her fourth baby would have something to remember her by. Tris sleeps with it, as if it’s a bunny or a blankie. The most-requested bedtime story is for Jack to go through the album. “And this is Daddy,” Jack will say, pointing. “And this isMommy. Here’s Madison playing tennis. Here’s Smithy playing soccer. And here is baby Tris.”
“We aren’t going to see Smithy today,” he tells Tris. Or ever, as far as Jack knows. Sometimes he misses his sisters so much he goes into
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