Dust (5 page)

He wondered about what he had just said. Matthew had been gone for over four weeks, and that was a very long time. Four weeks was two fortnights, and that equaled a month. If Matthew had been trapped in a hole somewhere, by now he would have died from thirst, or starved. His parents hadn't talked about Matthew's disappearance since those first two weeks of frantic searching. And the Mounties had lost the trail. That didn't make sense to Robert because they were always supposed to get the bad guy. There was talk that a man had taken Matthew, but no proof of it. Two new people had moved to Horshoe, but neither seemed to be involved.

Robert liked to think that Matthew had gotten sick and been adopted by a momma coyote. She would have dragged him to her den, stuffing him with wild onions and rabbits. Matthew would return in the fall knowing how to howl like a coyote and hide in gullies.

Last week, Robert had overheard Mr. Ruggles say, "That Steelgate kid is dead, I bet, dried up to bones in the hills." The grocer had looked over his shoulder, seen Robert, and silently walked to the back room, out of shame, or fear of being infected by disease.

Dead. Robert tried to understand the word. If Matthew was dead, then had he really gone to Heaven, to the very place his mom always talked about? He thought of the calves that had died this spring—were they up there, too?

"You daydreaming again, Robert?" A soft voice nearby startled him. Uncle Alden stood next to the wagon, head cocked to one side. His green eyes glittered with humor. He looked a lot like Robert's mom, with the same gaunt, slightly haunting features, as though they had both experienced the same frightening event in their youth. But if there'd been such an event, then his uncle, at least, had learned to smile since that day.

"You on Barsoom? Or in Never Never Land?"

Robert blinked. "No. Just thinking about Matthew."

Uncle Alden nodded sagely. "Yeah. There's a lot to think about, isn't there? I really wish I knew where he's gone. I'm worried about your parents, too. How has your mom been?"

"Sad," Robert said. It was the only word that expressed everything. "Really sad. She doesn't move much, only to cook. Then she sits in the rocking chair and stares out the window."

"It's tough. Your mom—she changed a lot when Edmund died and it still weighs heavy on her. She prays harder now, maybe even too hard, but she wants to keep us all safe." Robert nodded. His mom was always praying: when they got up, before they ate, before they went to bed. Even sometimes in front of Uncle Edmund's picture, with tears in her eyes. It was as though the prayers would cast a protective spell around the family.

"How is your dad?"

"Angry." Robert didn't think he had to explain any further.

"Everyone blames themselves. Wonders what they could have done to change things."

Robert thought about the word
blame.
It was there in the house, on the walls, echoing in the hallways. Blame. Maybe even directed toward him. After all, he
was
the older brother, and he had chosen not to go with Matthew.

"Everything will work out," his uncle promised.

Robert looked up. Uncle Alden glanced away as though he didn't believe what he'd just said.

The door to the grocer's opened and Robert's dad walked out, clutching a cloth sack and a box of nails. He saw his brother-in-law and frowned. "What are you up to, Alden?" he asked gruffly, dropping his purchases in the wagon.

"Waiting for the hail," Uncle Alden answered, cheerfully. "It came this time last year."

"Don't even joke about hail. That's the last thing we need."

Uncle Alden shrugged. "Sorry, Garland. Joking is a bad habit I'm trying to break." He paused. "You hear about that guy in Regina?"

"What guy?"

"Went to get a tooth pulled out at the dentist, sat back, opened his mouth, and in jumped a grasshopper. Nearly choked to death. Darnedest thing was, when the grasshopper popped back out, it was holding the tooth!"

Robert's dad shook his head. "You and your tall tales," he growled, but Robert could see that his father's thin lips had almost turned into a smile.

"Your son believes me." Uncle Alden winked at Robert. "There's another guy up north who saddled a giant grasshopper, got on, and jumped right to the moon."

Robert laughed. His dad shot him a mean look. "Don't you encourage your uncle." This time he was smiling crookedly, like only half his face knew how. "He's a bad influence."

Uncle Alden grinned. "Need a hand with anything at home?"

"We're fine, thanks. Nothing much to be done right now."

"Call me if anything comes up, and say hi to my sister." Uncle Alden shook Robert's hand, and he awkwardly returned the gesture. "See ya, son." His uncle walked away.

Robert's father gave a soft, commanding whistle and flicked the reins. Smokie and Apache snorted, clomping their hooves and backing the wagon onto the street.

Robert watched Uncle Alden get into his truck. He picked something up from the seat and opened it. It looked like a magazine.

Robert wanted to follow him back to his farm south of town. Every time Robert visited he marveled at the books that flowed out of the shelves, how they were piled on the floor and laid open on the kitchen table. More books than the school library. More words than he could read in a lifetime.

That night Robert slept soundly for the first time since his brother's disappearance, not waking once. He dreamed of Matthew, a gentle dream in which his brother floated outside the second-floor window, shimmering.

To see him there seemed as natural as breathing. He rapped at the window and Robert undid the latch so Matthew could drift into the room. His eyes were wide and full of joy. He didn't speak, but somehow Robert knew that his brother
had
been living with the coyotes and had gone through a den to another world and seen many wondrous things: talking herons, singing frogs, and a lynx who was king of all the animals. Robert stopped feeling sad. Matthew looked so happy. He hovered there, his lips moving as though he were babbling, which was perhaps the strangest part of the whole dream, since he had always been a quiet boy. He left before the first rays of dawn, making Robert promise not to be glum.

Robert awakened happy and energetic. He slid out of bed and closed the window. Silver dust stained his hands. It sparkled and had an oily nature. He brought his fingers to his nose, sniffed in a scent of wolf willow. It was as though someone had crushed dried wolf willow leaves and strewn the powder across his window sill. Very odd. He wiped the dust on his pants and noticed that the covers on Matthew's bed were slightly rumpled, just the way they used to be every morning.

It was going to be a grand day. Robert dressed, took the steps two at a time, and dashed outside. His dad was feeding the steers. Robert ran over and grabbed a pail.

"Well, there's no getting out of it, son," Robert's dad said, cheerfully, "we're gonna have to go to church today."

Robert carefully poured oats across the hay strewn in the feeding trough.

"Not too much," his dad warned gently, smiling so his teeth showed, "that stuff's like gold."

Robert tipped the pail up a little.

"That's it. Good job."

His father had not spoken so many words to him in ages. Robert felt uneasy hearing them; he wanted more but didn't trust them, because the words might disappear or become angry. He would have to be very careful, do everything exactly as he was told.

When they were finished, his father patted his back, and Robert shuddered slightly. His dad used to pat him on the shoulder and talk about cows as heavy as hippos and wheat as tall as sunflowers. Robert suddenly saw that magical world, where everything was bigger. Dragonflies the size of airplanes. Gophers larger than hounds. Giant cow hippopotamuses lumbering around wet fields. No—
hippopotami!

"I dreamed a wonderful dream last night," his dad murmured, as though it were the biggest secret in the universe. "Everything was growing. I walked out in the wheat field holding your mom's hand and you and Matthew ..." He faltered for a moment. "We were all there. It was a good dream. A
real
dream."

A real dream? Robert knew dreams weren't real, but he also knew that some could
become
real.

His dad gave him another pat. They strolled back home.

Inside, his mother greeted them with a grin. During breakfast, his dad touched his mom's hand. They intertwined fingers. Robert nearly dropped his spoon into his porridge.

"It's such a good day," his mother said, "a really good day." She winked at him.

Robert watched with wonder. The moment he was done eating, his mother said, "Why don't you get your fancy duds on, dear? I'll look after the dishes."

Robert nodded, abandoned his bowl, and went upstairs. He put on his best clothes: a pair of black pants; a white button-up shirt that made his skin itch; a bow tie; and black suspenders. Smashing, he thought to himself, I look dapper and smashing. Maybe even gallant. He liked the suspenders the most. They were something grown-ups wore. He strode downstairs, chest puffed out.

Then came a mechanical grunt and growl from outside, followed by a loud
pop!
He rushed out the door. His father was piloting the old Roadster up the driveway. It had been stored in the small shed for ages, the favorite bombing target of barn swallows and pigeons, but now it sparkled like new. His father opened the front door for his wife and lifted Robert into the rumble seat.

The car vibrated with life, thrumming under his body. It had been a year since he'd last sat in the car, during a long, bumpy trip to Grandpa Steelgate's funeral in Moose Jaw.

He remembered that day distinctly. He'd come down for breakfast and had told his mom that Grandpa Steelgate was dead. He'd known this because he'd had a dream in which Grandpa had danced through a ballroom with an invisible partner, stopped at a door, waved and winked at Robert, then pirouetted through. His mother had told Robert not to make up things like that. Then a few hours later Mr. Ruggles had brought a telegram announcing Grandpa Steelgate's death. What had followed was a silent, sad trip east.

This trip was not sad, though. It was a new adventure. The air was already sweltering, but a few clouds had scudded out of nowhere, softening the bright sun. The car jerked ahead onto the road; Robert's father laughed and apologized.

His parents seemed to talk excitedly during the trip into town, but out back in the open air, Robert couldn't hear a word. He daydreamed, the sun heating his skin, sweat trickling down the side of his face, cooled by the breeze. The Roadster! The name was magnificent. And here he was again in the rumble seat like a dignitary, a duke or a prime minister. Or a royal British prince. He imagined waving to the crowds that waited to get a glimpse of him.

Then they passed that place in the road where the grass was trampled down. He had once been sure something bad had happened there, but now he wasn't so certain. After all, Matthew had visited him last night and said everything was all right. It was important to believe him.

As the Roadster chugged through town, a few people gawked at them. It wasn't that they hadn't seen a car before—many did drive to church—but it was rare to see the Steelgates' car. It made Robert feel special. I'm Prince Robert of Steelgatia, he thought. I'm next in line to the throne. He couldn't help waving. Some girls from school waved back.

His dad parked the Roadster near the white picket fence. The church was old and small, perched on a hill with all of Horshoe laid out below it. He wondered if the reverend watched from his rectory to see who came to worship and who didn't. Maybe he even had a big book where he wrote down all the sinners' names. The bell rang, calling the flock. For Robert, the glorious ringing announced his family's arrival. Such an old sound.

They got out of the Roadster and walked across the dry grass. The church's stained-glass windows were rounded like the portholes on a ship; a ship in the middle of the prairies, Robert thought. If everyone sang loud enough it might sail to Heaven.

Inside, they were hit by thick, warm air. The church was packed, so Robert and his parents sat in a back pew. He preferred that, anyway. He didn't like it when he could feel someone breathe on his neck when they sang.

The pews were worn smooth by bodies sliding down to kneel, getting up to sing. The thick wood had been polished recently, and the smell tingled Robert's nostril hairs. The small chalkboard at the front was emblazoned with three numbers:
40, 23, 136.
Each would become a song.

Robert settled himself. Women, and some men, whispered to each other as if to keep God, or the reverend, from hearing their unholy gossip. Everyone was dressed primly and properly; even the Polver family, whom Robert knew were poor as beggars, had come in their best patched clothing. Drops of sweat trailed down Mr. Polver's pockmarked face and stains had appeared under his arms. Girls at school said the Polvers ate pig mash with molasses for breakfast, lunch, and supper. Maybe that's why Mr. Polver's teeth were brown.

The last few parishioners came in.
Parishioner
—another word Robert thought he should remember. Some day he would have a grand collection of exciting words.

Reverend Gibbs entered clad in white robes, with the ends of his long purple sacramental stole flapping. He was heavyset, big in voice and body. People turned forward like rowers in some vast Roman galley, eyes following their drum master. Robert imagined himself heaving and ho-ing to the slow beat of the hymns, striving to reach distant shores.

The reverend boomed words about God blessing the house, then the organ resounded with triumphant chords. The parishioners stood up, clutching their hymnals, and the choir warbled into song. Mrs. Juskin and Mrs. Torence, the two war widows, sat side by side in the choir, mouths wide open, voices blaring. The writing on the chalkboard was extremely neat, with all the proper curls; Mrs. Juskin had probably written down the hymns. She
was
the teacher in town.