Beetle Boy (24 page)

In the morning, as planned, I call Mrs. M. I wait until the last minute, because it is an hour earlier in Iowa, and I remember that she wakes up slowly. Her sister answers on the third ring.

“Why are you taking so long?” Helen demands. “I need someone to help me right now.”

She sounds so urgent. I am startled. “Well … I'm coming tonight,” I say, “with my brother. She said I should bring him.”

“What?” she exclaims. She is near tears. “Who is this?”

“It's Charlie Porter. I'm Martha's friend. She knows we're coming. We won't stay at your house. We have—”

“Oh. Oh. I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you. I thought you were the funeral home director. Martha died in her sleep last night. I found her this morning. I'm sorry. I can't tie up the phone right now.”

“No wait, no wait—I talked to her last week. She said—”

“She's dead, Charlie. So there is no reason for you to come.”

My mind is spinning. I can't find my voice. I manage to croak, “Won't there be a funeral?”

“She did not want a funeral. There will be no funeral. I really have to go.”

“But wait, but wait—did she say anything about me? Anything I should know?” Her past words of advice were flying through my head:
find a nice girl, be a fifth-grader, make some friends, bring your brother.

“There were no last words. No good-byes. It's very hard. I'm so sorry to have to tell you.” She was choking up. “I have to go now. Someone is here.”

She hangs up. I am still holding the phone, but I have fallen to my knees. The room is shrinking. Someone is howling uncontrollably from the end of a long tunnel.

Clara hears from the curb and comes running in. I cover my head with my arms, not wanting her to see this, my unbearable disappointment. “What happened?” she exclaims, coming closer. Then she says, “Oh God. She died, didn't she? She died before you could see her. Oh, Charlie. Liam and your mom are here! What should I tell them? I don't know what to tell them! Oh no! She died!”

I put my fists in my eyes, and the howling resumes.

“Charlie, they can hear you!” She hurries to the front door to tell them why I am freaking out. I hear her voice through the breaths between my sobs. She starts speaking matter-of-factly but soon becomes hysterical. “Because Charlie is upset. Charlie is very, very UPSET.”

Liam comes bounding in. Mom stays frozen at the front door. She looks like she is about to die herself. Her face is as pale as I have ever seen it. Her hand is at her heart, fingers splayed. Liam comes right up to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. His voice is oddly cheerful. “Hey, hey there, Charlie-boy. Hey, now. Come on. It's not so bad. It's not the end of the world. She was old. She was sick. Am I right?”

I say through my tears, “You idiot. You fucking idiot, you don't know.”

“Hey, we can even go somewhere else if you want. Right, Clara? Right, Mom? Here, get up and come on over to the couch and take a load off.”

His words jolt me from my grief. They stun me. My brother is being a good Porter man, digging deep into our shared past. I wipe my tears with both hands and look at him. I manage to say, “God, Liam. You have no idea how this feels.” But then I realize that of course he does. He does know. He's forgotten, but he knows.

“Hey, I'm just saying we can go somewhere else.” He is actually smiling his dazzling Porter smile. “I'll drive. Not a problem! Back on Wednesday! Let's do it!”

I see him so clearly then, all his damage, his resemblance to our dad, despite his time of healing and ascending. It's as though Dad is suddenly in the room with us, talking Charlie-boy and Leemster out of their motherless pain. Liam is upset, and he is trying to help me in the only way he knows how. I look past him, and there she, is our mother, standing in the doorway. She shakes her head at me slowly, and I think maybe she is disagreeing with Liam's advice—don't take a load off! Don't go! But I am not sure. Not sure that she can handle this any better now than how she handled things back then. I do not know her well enough to be sure; that is the chasm between us. Clara is standing beside her with one arm around Lucinda's narrow shoulders. Lucinda she can help. She does not know how to help me. I can see in her face how excruciating this is for her. I have distressed them so deeply, each of them, with my display of uncontrolled grief. But my mind grasps at something, and I think,
At least none of us are children anymore
.

I wipe my face with the back of my hands. I get up from my knees. It is very difficult. My leg is still weak. I move to all fours and then stumble and lurch to a full stand. Then I say, gruffly, “I think I need to go somewhere by myself, okay?”

I move past them, through the front door, avoiding their arms, ignoring their calls. Then I am in Clara's car, and I am driving across the city. I know where to go. The car seems to be driving itself.

I end up at her house. It's the closest I can get to her today. There is an addition to her For Sale sign. The word
SOLD
.

I recognize him from my hazy memories of someone helping me while I was thrashing in the street only a few months ago. Mr. Carter. He must have seen me sitting in my old chair on the front porch. I am not wearing my walking boot; I came unencumbered. He waves, smiling. If he notices I have been crying, he doesn't mention it. He says, “How are you there, Chris? Remember me? Glad to see your leg is okay. Are you here about the desk?”

The desk. The desk is still inside. I had forgotten all about it.

“Martha mentioned that you might need some help with it.”

“Right,” I say. Then admit, “Actually, I have no idea what to do with a desk like that.”

“You can get a good price for it. I know a thing or two about antiques. Martha asked me to advise you. I mean, if you want my advice.”

“Oh, I do. I really, really need some advice today.”

“I have a friend who's a dealer, and he more or less specializes in antique desks. I could give him a call.”

“That would be great. I can pay you if he buys it.”

“Oh no, I'm happy to help Martha. I got a nice commission on her house. What do you hear from her lately?”

“Not very much,” I say.

“Where are you living these days? With your gram so far away?”

“I don't have a place to live actually. I was living with my girlfriend, but we broke up.”

“That's too bad.”

“I know.”

“Well, you can't live here anymore. The new owner is coming in a week. A family of four. Two little boys.”

“They'll love it,” I say. My voice thickens. “It was the best place I ever lived.”

He looks at me for a long moment, scratching his whiskered chin. Perhaps he is just now noticing my disheveled state, my red eyes. He says hesitantly, “You know, son, I have an empty room at the back of my house if you need a place to stay for a month or two. I mean, since you're Martha's grandson.”

I am suddenly holding my breath. I say, “I can pay the rent. I have a little money from my mom.”

“Martha's daughter?”

I shook my head. “She didn't have any kids. I was her … honorary grandson.”

“
Honorary
grandson? Is that right? Maybe that's why I feel like I can trust you not to make any trouble in my house.”

“I'll be too busy to make trouble. I need to find a job right away.”

“Do you want to see the room, Chris? There's a small bed in it. And a dresser. And a chair.”

“That sounds fine. Did you say it's in the basement?”

“No, it's at the back of the first floor. With a separate entrance.”

I find that I am faintly disappointed. But quickly recover. First floor is good. Bed is good. Separate entrance is good. Aloud I say, “Thank you so very much, Mr. Carter.”

“You can call me Frank.”

“Okay, Frank. I'll come later on today with my stuff. A few things. Some small boxes. No furniture. And I promise I won't stay long.”

“All right then. And I'll call my friend about the desk. You can tell Martha I'm helping you.”

I agree. I do not want to tell him yet that Mrs. M. is dead, in case that makes him change his mind about me. Too unconnected now. Too alone. Just me and a few boxes and a walking boot and one gigantic desk.

I get up from the porch chair and limp over to Clara's perfectly packed car. Time to go back and face the three of them; they will be waiting for whatever I will tell them about my next move. I will be standing on both legs when I tell them. They will see that for once I am sure about what is best for me.

Before I start the car, I lower my head over the wheel and whisper, “Wait, wait, since when am I sure about what is best for me? How is anybody ever sure about that?”

My questions echo in the empty car. I have no idea what I am doing. But there is no terror in my uncertainty. I actually feel pretty strong, stronger than I would have ever thought possible after such a terrible morning. Strong enough to get through the rest of this day, definitely.

At least the story that comes now will be all my own story.

I take a deep breath. I start the car.

I think I got this, Mrs. M.

MARGARET WILLEY
has writen in many genres over a career that spans decades. All of her books and stories come from a personal place, either something that happened to her or something she witnessed at close range.
Booklist
called her most recent novel,
Four Secrets
, “rich in unique voices” in its starred review. Margaret lives in Grand Haven, Michigan, with her husband, Richard Joanisse. Visit her online at
www.margaretwilley.com
.