Close to the Broken Hearted (10 page)

T
he first thing Dewey had done once I showed him the swords was pull out his notebook and start jotting down a new invention. “What is it?” I asked, looking on.

He sketched a big circle with a smaller circle attached to the side. Then he wrote the word
rope
with an arrow pointing to the big circle and the words
wire tie
with an arrow pointing to the smaller circle. Then he said, “I'm a genius.”

I still didn't know what it was. “How does this make you a genius?” His notebook was over half full of inventions. He'd been pretty busy considering summer wasn't even half finished yet.

He held out the pad for me to see more clearly, although I'd already seen pretty well what he'd drawn. “This will allow us to wear our swords on our hips like real knights. Like they is in, you know, scabbards.”

I studied his diagram. “I'm assumin' the wire tie isn't pulled all the way tight?”

“No, we gotta keep 'em loose so the sword hangs down a bit. The cross guard will stop it from fallin' through.”

So we went into my garage and started rummaging through my pa's stuff. Sure enough, we found some nice yellow rope that was flexible and perfect for wrapping around our waists and tying at the front. I thought we were going to have a problem coming up with wire ties, but Dewey even managed to find those in all that mess, too. I realized my pa sure did have a lot of garbage in that garage.

Within another ten minutes, both of us had our swords at our sides. Dewey's invention worked perfectly. I thought it was a much better idea than his satellite television reception with aluminum foil.

Me and Dewey had spent the last five days in my backyard playing with the swords me and Carry made in the garage on Monday, and I think they turned out pretty good. They didn't look as nice as the ones at Disney World, but after a minute or two of thrusting and parrying, our imaginations took over. After that, they may as well have been the real things. It was apparent very early on that I was a much better swordsman than Dewey, although he showed signs of improvement each time we fought.

Every day had been nice and sunny with just the odd cloud overhead to give us a slip of shade. Today there was a slight wind, which was a welcome break from the heat beaming down on us while our blades continued crashing. When they hit, they made a knocking sound like wooden blocks being banged together, but in my head I heard the clanging of solid steel forged by the finest of blacksmiths.

“Take that!” I said, with a thrust after blocking Dewey's slash. We were in my backyard, fighting between the two cherry trees. The sun was dancing in and out of the clouds that hung throughout the sky. Currently it was between them, beating straight down on us. I wiped sweat off my forehead with my left arm. It was getting hot.

Dewey stepped back. “Missed me!” he said and took another step back.

I kept coming forward, slicing as I approached.

“Hey, watch it!” Dewey's back came up against the narrow trunk of one of the cherries.

“You can't tell me to watch it,” I said. “We're sword fighting. This is how you sword fight.” I took another jab. He tried to block it with his sword but missed. The point of my weapon slid right down the edge of his and hit him square on the knuckles.

“Ow!” he yelled.

He dropped his sword to the grass and stuck his knuckle in his mouth. “That's the fourth time you've hit me there! Can you watch what you're doin'?” It was hard to understand what he was saying with his knuckle in his mouth.

“Dewey. We're sword fightin'. Fightin' sometimes involves gettin' hurt. Just be happy these aren't
real
swords.
You
wanted to use
real
ones,
remember?
”

“I never said I wanted you to scrape my fingers.”

“No, just cut 'em off.”

Dewey said nothing. Just stood there with his hand in his mouth.

“Pick up your sword,” I said.

“No, I'm done playin'.”

“C'mon,” I said. “Don't be a baby. I hardly hit you.”

“Abe, it hurt.”

“You're a baby.”

“Let me hit you.”

“Go ahead. All you gotta do is get past my expert blocking technique.”

“No, I mean just let me hit you so you can see what it feels like.”

I put my hands on my hips, holding my sword at my waist with its tip facing the ground. “Do I look like an idiot?”

“Do
I?
Why would I keep playin' when all you do is whack my fingers?”

“Cuz it's fun?” I offered.

He just glared at me. I got the feeling it was less fun for him.

Just then my mother called me from the back door.

“What?” I called back.

“We're goin' out. Dewey has to go home. He can come back later.”

“Where are we goin'?”

“Shoppin'.”

“Where's Carry?”

“What does that have to do with anythin'?” she asked. The sun went behind a cloud. It was amazing how fast the temperature dropped.

“Can't I stay home with her?” I hated shopping. Especially the way my mother shopped. It was like she had to look at every single item in the store before making a decision about buying anything. You'd think my mother would let me stay home by myself, me being twelve and all. She sometimes did, but only on special occasions like when she didn't have any choice. But maybe because she worked as a police officer, she worried more than other parents about me being alone. Like she just expected someone to come to the house and snatch me away or something.

“No, she's goin' out,” she said. “Besides, I wanna buy you a new pair of sneakers.”

My head fell. I hung my arms from my sides. My sword went limp. “Do we have to go today?”

“Abe. Do as you're told. Do we need to have a talk about listenin'?”

I'd had enough talks with my mother about listening to last me the rest of my life. That wasn't the problem. I knew her point of view when it came to listening. “No.”

“Good. Let's go. Dewey, thanks for comin' over.”

“You're welcome, Miss Leah.” He stood there, his hand still in his mouth. His words came out half mumbled.

Slowly, I wandered toward the back door. “What's wrong with his hand?” my mother asked.

“Abe tried to cut off my fingers with his sword,” Dewey said, his mouth continuing to make the words near on impossible to understand.

“Abe,” my mother said as I walked by her into the house, “do I need to take your new swords away?”

I stopped and looked up at her. “I barely scraped the edge of his hand. He's just being a baby. Look at this.” I held up my sword, displaying both sides of it. “Carry even dulled the edges. I doubt I could kill a beetle with it.”

“Just be more careful,”

“Thanks, Miss Leah,” Dewey said. He was still standing in the backyard with his back against the cherry tree.

“Dewey?” my mother said. “Take your sword and go home now. I think your hand's gonna be fine.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He picked up his sword with the hand not in his mouth and headed around the house to the front where his bicycle was waiting.

“I'm not gonna get a call from his ma, am I?” my mother asked me.

“No,” I said. “I barely touched him. Honest.”

“Okay, cuz if I do, I'm tellin' her I had nothin' to do with it, and you were the mastermind behind the whole thing.”

I searched her eyes to see what she meant by that and saw a sparkle there. She was kidding around. She knew Dewey was just as big a baby as I did.

 

Next thing I knew, me and my mother were in the car and going through town. About fifteen minutes into the drive, I realized we weren't headed anywhere we might be able to buy me a pair of sneakers. We were rumbling up Hunter Road, toward Blackberry Springs—away from downtown or anything even closely resembling a store of any sort. “Where are we goin'?” I asked. “There's nowhere to buy sneakers up here.”

“I have an errand to run before we go shoppin'.”

I had no idea what we could be doing going up in this part of town. There was nothing here except lonely houses spaced very far apart and a lot of forest. It was actually a rather pretty part of Alvin, with densely packed elm, hickory, oak, maple, and other trees lining the edges of the road. If you went up far enough, you came to the springs that ran between Cornflower Lake and Willet Lake. I had heard the springs were popular with teenagers who liked to drive up and park along the side of Hunter Road with their girlfriends.

Thinking of that brought back memories of me and my mother sneaking up on Carry and her boyfriend. That was last year when they were in his red car on the outskirts of town parked at the side of one of the old ranch roads. My mother actually pulled her gun on Carry's boyfriend and threatened to shoot him in his private parts. That memory brought a smile to my face. “What sort of errand is we goin' on?”

“I need to talk to someone. It won't take long.”

I had no recollection of anyone we knew living up near Willet Lake. “Who do you need to talk to?” I narrowed my eyes. “Is this police work?” My mother had developed a habit of taking me with her on police-related matters.

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Yes, it's police work. Why is it important to you
who
I need to talk to?”

I shrugged. “Just askin'. Since I'm comin', figured I should know.”

A minute went by while it seemed like she was considering whether to tell me any more about it. Finally, she did. “I'm goin' to talk with Eli Brown. I promised Miss Sylvie I'd pay him a visit.”

“Preacher Eli?” I asked, astonished. “Isn't he in jail?”

My mother took a deep breath. “He's done his prison time.”

“And he's back
here?
” I asked. “In
Alvin?
” I found this exceptionally discomforting that a killer lived in my town.

“Yes, Abe. He's done his time. He's no longer a felon. He's a free man. He can live wherever he chooses.”

“But he's a killer, Mom. He killed a kid!”

She sighed. It sounded like it came out through gritted teeth. “You don't understand the legal system, Abe. He killed a boy by accident. Eli Brown was committed to prison for doin' it and did all the time he was supposed to do. From the law's point of view, he's no longer a criminal.”

“But he did kill Sylvie's brother.”

She paused. “He did. But that was a long time ago. Time has forgiven him of his sin. So should
you,
Abe.”

I didn't rightly understand what she meant. All I knew was that she was taking me to the house of a man who killed the last kid he ever got close to, and this didn't sit well with me. “Do you think bringin' me with you is the best idea, Mom? He
likes
killin' kids.”

My mother hit the brakes, bringing the car to a stop on the side of Hunter Road. She turned and looked directly into my eyes. “Abe! I want to make sure we're perfectly clear on this subject. First, Preacher Eli Brown doesn't
like
killin' kids. He killed Caleb Carson by accident. According to the court, he never meant to kill
anyone
that day, especially not poor little Caleb. Second, I would
never
put you in harm's way. If I thought there was even a hint of a chance that you comin' to his house was puttin' you in danger, I would
not
be bringin' you. Do you understand?”

I just watched her, not knowing if she actually wanted a response from me at this point.

“
Do
you understand?” she asked again.

I nodded.

“Good. Third, Eli Brown is
no longer
a criminal.
Do not
treat him like one. He is a member of society with the same rights as you and me. He is no better or worse in any way. Is that clear?”

Quickly, I nodded again.

“Good. Cuz you're comin' to the door with me, so you better be comfortable.”

I swallowed. “Why? Why am I comin' to the door?” This made
no
sense to me.

“Cuz I want to see his reaction when I show up with you on the doorstep. I'm paying him a visit as an
assessment,
but I don't want him to know that's what I'm doin'. Please, Abe. Trust me. The man is old now. He was old when he went to prison. That was almost twenty years ago.”

I thought all this over. After what I considered the proper length of time to consider it, I answered, “Okay, I trust you.”

“Good.” My mother started the car and pulled back out onto Hunter Road. She drove onto the small wooden bridge over the springs until we came to a small run-down house on the left side of the road about another quarter mile up. It was painted brown with a black roof and nestled in a small clearing surrounded by pine and fir trees. The ground around it was mostly dirt. There was a rusted truck trailer beside the house and a dented station wagon parked on an angle out front. Farther back in the woods, I could make out a small barn or maybe a garage that was stained a deep red. The siding, like the boards on the house, was aged and in need of refinishing.

“Come on,” my mother said, opening her door.

I got out of my side. The air was thick with the smell of the pines, but a hint of an oil smell came along with it. I followed my mother's lead up to the door and watched a monarch butterfly float across the hard-packed ground beside the steps while she knocked.

Preacher Eli answered. A tall man, he was wearing a red-and-black-checkered shirt with sleeves that came down to his wrists. The sleeves were unbuttoned, but the shirt was done up to his neck and tucked into gray pants. He wore a black belt with a silver buckle. His pants went down into boots that looked remarkably similar to cowboy boots. He certainly didn't look much like a preacher to me.