Another Kind of Hurricane (22 page)

“We don't know anyone in Vermont,” said Papa.

“Of course you do,” said Ms. Cyn. She tugged her scarf, which was about two miles long now, and gathered it into her lap as she sat down. “Who do you think you're looking at?”

“That's the problem. I don't exactly know.”

“Him?” said Osprey. “He's Henry.” She clicked to Tiger, who jumped onto her arm.

“No offense, Henry, but I've only just met you,” said Papa.

“Henry,” said Osprey, “I wish I still had that leash I gave you. I want to take Tiger for a walk.”

“Tiger doesn't need a leash,” said Henry. “I think he'd stay with you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I was thinking of taking a walk too,” he said. “I need—I want to see Pierre's Salvation Army.”

“Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em,” Tiger squawked.

Henry laughed, and Papa's face sharpened into anger. He
began painting again, and Zavion noticed his hand shook harder as he dipped the brush in the paint.

“That bird speaks the truth,” said Ms. Cyn.

The door opened again and Jake walked inside. “Morning, everyone,” he said. He stayed rooted just inside the door.

“Half the day is gone, lazy bones,” said Tiger.

“You talk too much,” said Jake, but he was smiling.

“Lazy bones! Lazy bones! Look what I've done today already—”

Zavion watched Papa. His face was still sharp. “Please, Papa—”

“Gabe is family,” said Papa, but he wouldn't even look at Zavion when he spoke.

Gabe was family, but Zavion barely knew him. Where was he? Why wasn't he here?

Jake and Henry were here.

Zavion walked up a few rungs of the ladder and grabbed at Papa's ankles. “Please,” he said again.

Jake cleared his throat. “I'm—uh—guessing this has something to do with a visit to Vermont?” He looked at Henry.

“Yup,” said Henry.

“Henry talked with me about it. I'm happy to bring you and Zavion with us.”

“Thank you, but no.” Papa's voice was firm.

“You're welcome to come stay with Annie and me, Ben,” said Jake.

“I'm not your damn charity case!” Papa slammed the paintbrush into the can of paint.

“I know you're not.” Jake spoke quietly.

“No! No, you don't seem to know it at all! What do you think? That you can come down here with a few shirts and a few cans of soup and save us? Well, you can't! It's too little! It's too little and it's too late! Where were you before the damn levees broke? Where were you when they were cracked and needed to be fixed? A thousand cans of soup aren't going to build a wall high enough to keep that water out—”

Papa spun around and kicked the can of paint with his foot. It tipped and spilled. Green paint poured down on Zavion.

Zavion sputtered and gagged—

A flash—

Thick, cold—

“Oh, Zav—” Papa rushed down the ladder.

Oily, wet—

He closed his mouth. The paint tasted bitter.

Papa put his hands on his shoulders and guided him down the last few steps.

“Come on over here,” said Ms. Cyn. She handed Papa something, and he wiped Zavion's face.

“Tighty-whities!” squealed Osprey.

“Papa—” said Zavion. The paint burned his eyes. “It isn't Jake's fault.”

Paint dripped from the platform of the ladder to the ground.
Drip, drip, drip
, like rain.

“It isn't—” Papa's voice was quiet. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “But it's complicated.”

“I don't understand.”

“Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em!” chimed in Tiger.

“Shhhhh—” whispered Henry. He sat on the floor with Osprey and Tiger on his lap.

Papa hugged Zavion to his chest.

“I don't know what to do,” he said.

“I do,” said Zavion through the paint that was still in his mouth. “We need to go to a mountain. I thought we needed to go to Mama's mountain, but now I think we need to go to theirs.” He looked at Henry and Jake. “That's why I met them. That's why I went to New Orleans. That's why I found this—”

Zavion reached into his pocket and pulled out the marble—

Henry gasped.

Wayne.

There was Wayne.

There was the mountain.

There was the marble.

The marble.

The flash of it between Henry's and Wayne's hands. The space lit up by the flash. The space between Henry and Wayne.

The flashing, pulsing, breathing space.

Zavion turned to Henry.

He knew instantly.

Here was the boy who had sent him the marble. In a million years Zavion wouldn't have guessed that he would meet that boy—Henry—
here
. How far was Vermont? How many miles? Tree after tree after tree after tree, and all that highway, it was all compressed into this small space. The small, round space between one hand dropping a marble into another.

“Do you want it?” said Zavion. He extended his hand to Henry.

Osprey leaned back into Henry's chest and looked up at him.

“It's a magic, isn't it?” she said. “It's
the
magic.”

Zavion put the marble in Henry's hand. Henry let it roll back and forth on his palm. Tiger bowed his head and poked his beak at it. Henry couldn't believe it. He thought maybe he should feel excited to find it again, but a river of sadness rushed through him. An ocean. Wave after wave after wave.

“Where did you get this?” he asked. He wanted to be absolutely sure.

“I got some clothes from the Salvation Army,” said Zavion. “The marble was in the pocket of a pair of blue jeans. These jeans, actually.”

Henry scrutinized the jeans. A small rip at the knee. One cut belt loop. His old jeans.

“These…are your…jeans, aren't they?” said Zavion.

“Is there a hole in the right pocket?”

Zavion put his hand in the pocket. “A hole! Yes! The money must have fallen out—”

“Those are mine,” said Henry, but he could tell that Zavion didn't need confirmation.

“Wow. So this is your marble?”

“Yup.” Henry ran a finger from Tiger's head all the way to his tail. He missed Brae again. “Mine and Wayne's.” He missed Wayne too.

“Who's Wayne?”

“My son,” said Jake. Henry turned to look at Jake. He was staring at the marble.

“Henry's not—” began Zavion. Henry turned back to him. “You're not—”

“Henry's not my son,” said Jake quietly. “Wayne is my son—was my son….” He trailed off.

“We traded the marble back and forth. For good luck.” Henry sighed. “I just—I wanted—but then I didn't think it had any luck in it anymore. So I stole it—I put it in my pocket—and then it ended up down here—” Henry uncurled his fingers and held the marble out to Zavion. “Here—”

“But this isn't mine,” said Zavion. “Don't you want to keep it?”

“No—well, maybe—” Henry struggled. “I don't know—I don't think I will ever have any good luck again anyway—” All he had wanted was to find the marble, he thought he would feel better, and maybe even hopeful when he did, and now he was miserable.

Zavion extended his arm, but instead of taking the marble, he grasped Henry's hand like he was going to shake it. The marble sat between their palms.