Another Kind of Hurricane (25 page)

“That's it, isn't it?” asked Zavion.

“Yup. Mount Mansfield,” said Henry.

The mountain peak stretched across the golden horizon, long like Zavion's new scarf.

“It's such a long mountain range. I didn't expect that.”

“The story goes,” said Henry, “that it used to have a taller peak, more like a normal old mountain, straight up and down, and Native Americans would climb it to find a private place to wait when they knew they were about to die.”

“You know the legend?” said Jake.

“You told it to me, Jake,” said Henry.

Jake laughed. “Right.”

“Like, a hundred times.”

“Okay, okay—”

“So one day,” said Henry, “a chief tried to make the journey to the top. He was hurt, though, and couldn't really climb, and
he died before he reached the summit. God carved his profile into the mountain. That's why Mansfield looks like a face.”

A face—

“Grandmother Mountain has a face carved into it too,” Zavion said. He looked back at Papa. “We decided it did, anyway, didn't we?” Papa nodded.

“What is Grandmother Mountain?” asked Henry.

“I've heard of Grandfather Mountain,” said Jake.

“They're near each other,” said Papa. “Grandfather is part of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and Grandmother is across the valley. Pioneers thought they saw the face of an old man in one of the cliffs of Grandfather, and so they changed its Cherokee name, Tanawha, to Grandfather.”

“My mama told the story that Grandmother Mountain was a wanderer,” continued Zavion. “She never could settle, and moved from valley to valley, from river to stream, until she got lost one day, and she was scared. But in the morning, she saw a face come into focus as the sun came up, and she fell in love. It was Grandfather Mountain. And so she put down her roots and stayed forever.

“My mama was born near Grandmother Mountain,” finished Zavion. “And when Papa painted the mural of it in my room, he painted the face of a woman in its highest cliff.”

“An old grandma?” said Henry.

“No,” said Zavion. “He painted my mama's face.”

The truck was quiet after that. Zavion studied Mount Mansfield. It did look like the face of a man. The long face of a man staring up into the sky. Zavion traced the trail lines on the map from the base to the different summit points, traced the veins of the man's face. To the chin. To the nose. To the forehead. Up the winding line of one, then back down and up the line of another.

The truck mimicked his hand as it, too, wound up and down the dirt road, taking them into a new country.

Henry made Jake drop him off at the bottom of the driveway, and Brae bounded toward him before he had gotten all the way up. Brae knocked him to the ground, his long body wiggling over Henry's.

“Hi, boy,” said Henry. He buried his face in Brae's thick fur, breathed in the dog and dirt and pine that he had missed so much.

Mom was in the garden. She ran to Henry and gathered him into her arms.

“Oh, Henry—” she said. “I missed you—”

Henry collapsed onto Mom's shoulder. Brae ran in circles around them. Henry rested his chin on Mom's shoulder and squinted up at Mount Mansfield.

I'm back
, he mouthed at the hulking mountain.

Mom squeezed him hard. “What an adventure you must have had….” She trailed off. She pulled him upright and stared
into his eyes. “Are you okay? What's wrong? Do you want to tell me about what happened?”

He did. He really did. But he couldn't remember any of it. Standing under the mountain, its long peaks golden with fall leaves, blindingly bright against the clear blue sky, its base brown and solid and never-ending, its rocks and dirt and the roots of its trees tumbling down and out, extending all the way to Mom's garden, made Henry's head feel empty. He looked down at his hand. Osprey's leash was wrapped around his wrist, like a reminder, like a string tied on a finger.

“Why don't you come help me weed?” Mom said. “Some Vermont dirt should make you feel better.” She walked toward the garden. “And you can tell me about your trip when you're ready.”

Brae took off, running in circles around the house, stopping to sniff a few trees and rocks, and then settled at Mom's side. He licked her bare feet, between her toes. Then he shot a glance at Henry and barked.

“Okay, I'm coming,” said Henry.

Mom pulled a wilted flower out of the ground. “These poor marigolds,” she said. “They look awful.”

Henry knelt down. She was right. The whole garden was a mess. Weeds and grass sprouted up between the flowers everywhere.

“I've all but abandoned them this fall, haven't I?” said Mom.
She tucked her nightgown into her sweatpants. She yanked on a weed. Brae pawed at the ground, like he was urging Henry to help, so Henry yanked on the weeds too. “Oh, Henry—” Mom stopped weeding. “Watch this.” She pulled a piece of paper towel out of her pocket. Then she pulled a marigold from the garden and wrapped it in the paper towel, like a present. She put it on the ground next to Brae.

No! No, no, no, no, no—

Mom squeezed one hand into a fist.

No!
That wasn't how Henry did the trick!

Mom held her fist out toward Brae and slowly uncurled her fingers until her hand was flat.

Noooooooooooooooo!

Henry felt himself ignite.

Brae opened the present with his paws and nose. When he was finished, the marigold lay on the ground, not a leaf or a petal destroyed.

The flames in Henry's belly were so high they licked the back of his throat. They rose from his throat and up into his nose and eyes.

“Henry—” He heard Mom's voice through the roar inside him, but he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop the heat and he couldn't stop the memory—

—

“Hey, you wanna see what I'm teaching Brae?” said Henry
.

“Another trick?” said Wayne
.

“Uh-huh.”

“This dog could join the circus.” Wayne sat up on his sleeping bag. “Okay, let's see it.”

Henry tore a piece of cheese from the remaining chunk and grabbed a bandanna from the top pocket of his backpack. He wrapped the cheese inside the bandanna. Brae sniffed at it
.

“You're teaching him to eat fabric? That can't be good for his guts.”

“No.” Henry shoved Wayne. “Watch, all right?” He stood up. “Sit,” he said. Brae sat. “Good boy.” He glanced at Wayne. “Good boy to you too.”

“Shut up.” Wayne swiped at Henry's leg
.

“Okay, okay, I gotta concentrate,” said Henry
.

—

“Henry?” Mom's voice came back into focus.

Henry dug in the dirt with his fingers. He wanted to dig a hole so deep he could lay his burning body in it and smother the flames. He dug some more and hit a rock. Brae whimpered behind him. Henry had to get away.

He grabbed the rock and scrambled to his feet.

“Wayne!”
he yelled, running toward the house.

Brae whimpered again.

It was time for Jake to go to bed. “We have a big hike to do later, right?” he said. “And the beginning of a painting project? Then I gotta get some sleep.”

Jake began to leave, but then turned back to Zavion.

“This is yours, I think,” he said.

He opened his hand. The marble sat in his palm. Zavion took it.

And with that, Jake disappeared into his room for a midmorning nap. Annie led Zavion down the hall, past a closed door, to what looked like an office.

“I hope this will do,” said Annie.

“Thank you,” said Zavion. He stood in the middle of the room, taking it all in.

Annie opened the window just a crack. The cold air pushed its way into the room like a dog at the door.

“It smells—exactly like I thought Vermont would smell,” said Zavion, breathing deeply. He coughed.

“Cold in your lungs, right?” said Annie. “There's nothing purer. Sweeps your body clean.”

Zavion thought about the smell of bread baking. He already missed Ms. Cyn. He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck.

“This is beautiful.” Annie tucked in the end of the scarf. “It's good to meet you, Zavion. Real good,” she said.