The Clay Lion (7 page)

After berating Branson repeatedly that it was
time to leave in an attempt at keeping him from being late for the movie, my
brother finally emerged from his room.  He was adorably disheveled as
usual and wholly unaware of the schedule we were trying to keep.  I
ushered him down the stairs and into my car.

“You are going to miss the beginning of the movie
with your dawdling,” I admonished him.  “You are forever dragging your
feet little brother!”

“There are always the previews, Sis,” he teased.

“You better hope Chad is ready or you are going
to miss the whole point of the story.”

“The movie is called
Night of 1,000 Corpses
. 
I don’t know how much of a plot there is actually going to be,” he
smiled.  “I’m sure I’ll catch up.  But we’ll make it, you’ll see!”

I wished that I could share my brother’s sunny
optimism, especially about the conversation I was about to have with him. 
I spent the fifteen minute drive to Sarah’s house discussing my plan for both
of us to acquire jobs at the mall for the holiday.  It was met with less
than enthusiastic consideration.

“Why would I work at the mall?” he asked. 
“I’ve worked the past two years at the hardware store.”

I continued on with a litany of reasons why it
made good, common sense for him to come work at the mall with me, leaving out
the only honest reason, which was of course so that he would not be exposed to
the asbestos lurking in the attic of the hardware store.  Branson, in
turn, had a
mindful
retort to each of my
rationales.  As we pulled into Sarah’s driveway, I honked the horn in frustration.

“I can get Logan to drive me as long as we work
the same shifts,” Branson was logically explaining as Sarah slid into the car.

“You
still trying
to
convince him to quit the hardware store?” Sarah asked, casting a conspiratorial
look towards Branson in the back seat.

“I’m not trying to convince him of anything!” I
replied, my voice raising an octave.  “I’m just trying to get him to
listen to reason.”  My exasperation with both of them was palpable.

We drove in silence for the next several miles on
the way to pick up Chad.  As he climbed in the back next to Branson and
shut the door, he glanced around the car and observed each of us sitting like
statues.  “Who died?” he asked lightheartedly.

With that one good-natured comment, all of the
frustration, sadness, and anxiety that had been building up inside of me since
the rash appeared on Branson’s leg boiled up.  I screamed. 
A deafening, wailing scream that shook the windows and forced the
occupants of the vehicle to cover their ears with their hands.
 
When I finished screaming, I dropped my forehead onto the steering wheel and
sobbed into my folded arms.  Once I started, I could not stop.  I
cried for the loss of my brother.  I cried because my mother believed I
could do this brave, amazing thing and I was failing at every turn.  I
cried because, if I was failing, then the clock was ticking yet again on the
minutes that I had to spend with Branson.  And here I was, fighting with
him about the stupid hardware store job. 
If only I
could tell him why he could not go there.
  If only I could tell
them all. 

Slowly, slowly, I began to control my breathing
and felt my blood pressure releasing in my veins.  I wiped my eyes with my
sleeves but kept my chin tucked into my chest.  I could feel all three of them
staring at the back of my head, and I could feel them cautiously looking at one
another. 

“I’m fine,” I said.

No one spoke.

“No. 
Really.
 
I’m fine,” I said again.

Sarah, put her hand on my shoulder. 
A gesture of solidarity.

“Do you want to just go home?” Branson asked.

I assured them all for the third time that I was
fine and after wiping my eyes once more, I started the engine and backed down
Chad’s driveway.  Sarah turned up the radio and soon the boys were singing
along to the songs, making up their own ridiculous lyrics as they often
did.  By the time we made it to the theater, I was actually feeling better
and, amazingly, the movie was not scheduled to start for another eight minutes.

“See,” Branson said, “Told you we’d make it in
time!”

The boys hurried out of the back of the car and
Sarah and I turned the corner to the mall.

“I don’t understand what the big deal is about
the job,” Sarah commented cautiously.  “You two never fight.  I hate
watching it.”

I thought about listing for her all of my terrific
reasons for Branson to work at the mall.  I considered telling her the one
reason I had for him not to work at the hardware store.  And then, I
decided to say nothing at all.

“No more fighting.  I promise,” I said.

Sarah and I spent the two hours that the boys
were at the theater filling out job applications at one store after
another.  Most were hiring seasonal employees and paid extra for weekend
shifts when adults with children often opted not to work.  This was
especially important to Sarah, who genuinely needed the income to help support
her family. All I could think about was how Branson was going to work at the
hardware store and there was not a thing I was going to be able to do about it.

Later that night, after Branson and I were home,
I heard my mom in his room saying goodnight to him.  My ears perked up
when I heard him say my name.  I crept stealthily into the hallway and
attempt to hear what they were discussing.  With my ear as close to the
door as I dared, I eavesdropped on their conversation.

“I was kind of scared, Mom,” Branson said. 
“She got all weird and freaked out.  She’s not usually so, well, you know,
girlie
.”

“Maybe she’s just moody, Branson.  It’s not
atypical for girls to be emotional like that,” my mother responded.

“Maybe not, but it’s weird for Brooke to cry like
that for no reason.  I swear Mom, Chad got in the car and she lost her
mind.  I don’t know what set her off.  Between that and the stupid
job thing, she’s stressing me out,” Branson added.

“Give her some space.  I’ll try to talk to
her and see if I can find out what’s going on.  You’re a good brother for
caring, even if she is ‘stressing you out.’”

Branson’s bed creaked as my mother stood
up.  I cautiously made my way back to my room and busied myself with some
laundry, knowing my mother’s next stop would be my room.  Sure enough,
seconds later, there was a light rapping on the door.

“Yeah,” I said.

She opened the door just enough to peek her head
in.  “Just coming to say good night,” she said.

“Night,” I responded guardedly.

“How was the job hunt?”

“Fine,” I answered.  “I don’t know if I’m
actually going to do it.  I’ve got lots of schoolwork.  Plus, I have
to finish all those college applications.  It might not be the best time.”

“Whatever you want to do is fine.  See you
in the morning,” she said.  And with that, she was gone. 

There was no discussion of my lapse in
sanity.  I did not quite know what to make of it, but I was grateful for
it nonetheless.  I had decided that, if I was going to be unable to get
Branson to come work at the mall, there was no reason to further alter the
timeline by getting a job that I had never held the first time around. 
Also, I reasoned, if I did not get a job, I could use the extra time to mill
around the hardware store and see what I could dig up about the attic.

I had learned during my trip that I managed best
when I felt like I was making progress with the plan.  After Mother left,
I found myself unable to hold back tears for the second time that night. 
Instead of moving forward, I felt like Alice descending the rabbit hole into a
land where nothing made sense.  The clay lion my father had given me was
tucked away in my nightstand drawer.  I took it out and held it in my
hands.  If only I could have channeled the courage of that smiling
lion.  I prayed silently that the cream was indeed the cause of Branson’s
disease and that the hardware store attic would be inconsequential. 
Something deep inside whispered that I was wrong.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

I peeled off my jacket and tied it around my
waist as I traipsed through the remains of the snowfall from the week
before.  I wished I had worn my sneakers, as the snow was nothing more
than small dirty piles mottling the ground.  The boots I had worn instead
only slowed me down and made my feet sweaty.  Between the boots and the
blazing sun, which seemed unusually warm for December, I was glad to be almost
to my destination.

I made my way around to the rear of the hardware
store where a fire escape led to the second floor and the attic space. 
The building that housed the store was nothing more than an old home that had
been repurposed as commercial real estate.  I imagined the structure
itself was well over one hundred years old.  Local fire codes had required
the fire escape addition when it was converted from a single family home into
apartments decades ago.  When the current owners bought the property
before I was born and repurposed it into a hardware store, they never removed
the fire escape.  I had discovered on my second visit to the store that I
could pick the lock on the door at the top of the building, thereby gaining
access to the attic.  Since then, I had been back half a dozen times
snooping around for some clue as to what may have caused Branson’s illness.

I emerged from the brightness of the day into the
quiet shadows of the attic.  Strangely, I found myself enjoying the time I
was spending there and had begun looking forward to my afternoons hidden away
among the eaves.  There were so many buried gems just waiting to be
discovered.  I found stacks of cardboard boxes filled with store inventory
– nails, screws, measuring tapes.  There were also items that were the
Cooper family’s personal belongings, as they lived on the second floor of the
building.  Their artificial Christmas tree was lovingly bagged off in a
corner along with a few old sleds that I am sure must have been Mr. Cooper’s
when he was a child.  There were beach chairs and boxes of their
children’s old toys along with a few pieces of furniture that must have been
family heirlooms.  The most interesting of the attic treasures belonged,
not to the hardware store or the Cooper’s, but to previous tenants. 
Behind crooks and crannies, I had discovered old newspaper scraps, a well-worn
paper bag with several silver spoons, and my favorite, a wooden gunshot box
filled with letters.  So far, I had read only a few of them.  They
were letters sent from a soldier to his wife during a war.  They were
magical.

Upon my arrival, I headed over to where I had
hidden the box of letters and began to pick up where I had left off during my
last visit.  However, I was only in the attic for about ten minutes before
I heard voices coming from outside.  Curiosity caused me to head to the
window to see what
all the
racket was about. 
Encouraged by the gloriously warm weather, a group of children had descended
upon the vacant lot next door to play.  I watched them in their
shirtsleeves and sneakers playing what appeared to be kickball.  Their
exuberance was uplifting to watch.  The simple pleasure of playing ball
with a group of friends made my heart ache for the uncomplicated beauty of
childhood.  Watching them reminded me of how Branson and I would have been
at their age, without a care in the world.

Unexpectedly, I was pulled from my thoughts by
the sound of something above me. I peered down to see the children running
towards the store, and it suddenly occurred to me what had happened. 
Their ball was missing.  It was on the roof.

There was a flurry of activity from inside the
store beneath my feet.  I stood alongside the window just out of sight and
watched as the storeowner, Mr. Cooper, emerged from the side door.  He was
an older man, probably in his sixties, with a short trimmed beard and a funny handlebar
mustache.  Every Christmas he dressed as Santa Claus and gave out treats
to the children.  He sponsored a fall festival with hayrides and apple
bobbing each year, and in the spring, he held gardening workshops.  People
loved him.  It was no surprise that Branson wanted to work for him season
after season. 

Two stories below, the children pulled at Mr.
Cooper, pointing toward the roof.  He got down on his knees to speak with
them at their level.  I could see they were laughing, and by the smiles on
their faces, I knew that no one would be in trouble for kicking the ball on the
roof.  Within moments, he was up and walking back into the store only to
reappear seconds later with a ladder and one of his younger employees. 
The rescue mission for the ball began as the ascent was made up the
ladder.  Within moments, there were footsteps above my head.  I
watched as the ball fell to the waiting throng of children below. 

I expected to see the employee coming down the
ladder, but instead of an immediate descent, I heard pounding and then a
ripping sound.  There were shouts from the roof followed by shouts from
the ground.  As I watched from my hidden vantage point, I saw Mr. Cooper
ascending the ladder.  More voices came from above my head.  I cautiously
walked over to where I believed they were standing and strained to hear what
they were saying.  Then it dawned on me… they had discovered the damaged
shingles.  If the future was any indication, I already knew the roofing
was going to need to be replaced.