Tell the Wolves I'm Home (7 page)

I looked at my mother and Greta and decided not to mention the buttons.

“Okay,” I said. “I'm done. You can put it away.”

On Friday after school we went to the frame store downtown. Chubby little Mr. Trusky told us he understood how important it was that we were all happy with the choice, and he let us stay a half hour after he flipped the
CLOSED
sign on the door. Over and over my mother had Mr. Trusky frame up the portrait, and over and over one of us decided
it wasn't quite right. At the end of that day the painting was still un-framed. It went back in the trunk of the car, back in the same black plastic bag we brought it in.

“We'll try again tomorrow,” my mother said in the parking lot. “He says he's got more.”

“Why don't you just go by yourself?” Greta asked.

“Absolutely not. This is something Finn made for the two of you. This is your responsibility.”

“Well, then, I say we go for the plain black wooden one.”

I hated the plain black wooden one. It made us look sarcastic.

Each frame Mr. Trusky put around the portrait seemed to change everything about it. The one my mother liked was called Valencia and was made of dark wood with some small carvings around the edge that looked like coffee beans. I thought it made the whole portrait look boring.

“I like the gold one. The old-fashioned one.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Greta said.

It was called Tuscan Gold, and I thought it looked classy. Like the painting could go right into a museum with that frame around it.

“Finn would like that one,” I said.

“How do you know what Finn would like?” Greta asked, her voice sharp. “Have you managed to jump rope your way to the land of the dead now?”

Sometimes it amazed me the way Greta remembered things. When I was nine I had an idea about time travel. I thought that maybe if I jumped rope backward fast enough, I would go back in time. If I could just churn the air hard enough around me, I could make a little bubble that went backward. I didn't believe that anymore. I didn't believe anyone could have that kind of power.

My mother looked like she might break down any second, so I nudged Greta.

“Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow we'll see things clearer,” my mother said.

And somehow we did. We chose the first one Mr. Trusky showed us the next morning. Maybe we chose fast because Greta had found a good excuse not to come with us, so it was only me and my mom. Or
maybe it was because we were worn down or maybe because it really was the best frame. It was medium brown with beveled edges, and it almost seemed to disappear around the canvas, letting the painting be itself.

“Leave it with me for a couple days. I'll have it all framed up by, say, Tuesday morning.” Mr. Trusky scribbled on a pad.

“Leave it?” I said.

My mother put a hand on my shoulder. “He can't do it right now, honey. It takes some time.”

“But I don't like the idea of leaving it here. Away from us.”

“Come on, now, don't be rude. Mr. Trusky's doing his very best.” My mother smiled at Mr. Trusky, but he was still writing on his pad.

“I'll tell you what. I'll come in special tomorrow afternoon, just for you, and I'll bring it over to your house when I'm done with it. Okay?”

I nodded. It would still be away overnight, but it seemed like the best deal I was going to get.

“Say thank you to Mr. Trusky, please, June. This is awfully nice of him.”

I thanked him and we left. Mr. Trusky kept his promise, and the painting came back to us the next day. He propped it up on the kitchen counter so we could have a good look.

“Now, that's one handsome piece of art,” my father said, hands on his hips.

“And the frame is perfect. We do appreciate everything you've done,” my mother said.

“It makes all the difference, you know,” Mr. Trusky said.

Both my parents nodded, though I'm not sure they were even listening.

“And what about you, June? Are you happy?” Mr. Trusky asked.

It was the kind of question you had to say yes to. But really I wasn't. All I could see was me and Greta shoved into that frame together. No matter what happened, the two of us would always be trapped inside those four pieces of wood.

Eleven

“Can you sign for it …” The mailman pointed at a line halfway down a paper on his clipboard. His cap was tipped down with the peak covering his eyes. He scanned the list of names. “… June. June Elbus.”

This was on an afternoon a couple of weeks after Finn's funeral, when I was the only one home. I nodded and took the pen from his hand, which was shaking a little. As I signed my name, I could see out of the corner of my eye that the mailman was peeking into the house. After I signed, he handed me a box.

“Thanks,” I said, glancing up at him.

He stared back at me, and for a moment it seemed like he wanted to say something to me. Then he smiled and said, “Yeah. Right. It's fine … June.”

He turned to go, but then he stopped and stood there for another moment, his back to me.

I started easing the door closed, but the mailman still stood there, not moving. For a second it looked like he was about to turn around. He put a finger up in the air like he was about to say something, but then he didn't. He just let his hand drop and walked away.

I went straight up to my room and scooted onto my bed. I sat cross-legged with the package on my lap. The box was entirely covered in tape. It was like someone had taken a roll of brown packing tape and
wrapped it around and around in every direction until the box completely disappeared. I tried to find an end to pull, but I couldn't, so I used scissors to cut through the top. It wasn't my birthday and it was two months past Christmas. There was no return address on that box. Nothing at all except my name and address written in black permanent marker on top of the tape.

Inside were two big overpacked blobs, one smaller than the other. I opened the smaller one first. As I got down to the last few layers of bubble wrap and newspaper, I started to feel what it was. Then I saw a flash of brilliant blue with gold and red, and I realized that it was the lid of Finn's Russian teapot. I almost dropped it right onto the floor. After all that careful packaging, I almost let it slip right out of my fingers. I quickly moved on to the bigger piece. Ripping at it. Desperate to see the whole pot again.

The last time I'd seen that teapot was that last Sunday we went to Finn's. That Sunday when Greta didn't want to come along. That day, my mother and Finn were arguing about the pot. He wanted her to take it but she wouldn't. He held it out to her with two hands, and she batted him away.

“Stop being like that. We'll see you again,” she said.

Finn gave me a look like he was checking to see if it was okay to tell the truth. I looked away. I wanted to go into another room, but Finn had a one-bedroom apartment and there was nowhere else to go except the tiny kitchen, which was behind two swinging doors like they had in the Old West.

“Danni, just take it. For June. Just let me have my way for once.”

“Ha. For once. That's a good one.” My mother's voice was shrill. “We don't need your teapot and that's that.”

He walked across the room toward me, with the pot cradled in his hands.

My mother gave me a look. “Don't you even think about it, Junie.”

I sat there frozen. My mother headed Finn off, grabbing at the pot. Finn held it up over his head, trying to hand it to me.

Right then I thought I could see into the future of that teapot. I could see it smashing against the wood floor of Finn's living room. I could see all those shiny colored pieces catching the light of the sunset
through Finn's big windows. I saw half a dancing bear, a bear with no head, just legs, kicking up toward the ceiling.

“You silly old woman,” Finn said. He always called my mother “old woman.” Since they were kids, she told me once. And they had other jokes between them. Finn would call her “mutton dressed as lamb,” which wasn't really true, and then she'd call him “lamb dressed as mutton,” which was true. Finn did dress like an old man, with brown-buttoned cardigan sweaters and big, clunky old man shoes and handkerchiefs in his pockets. But it looked good on him. It looked right.

“You silly, silly old woman.”

My mother stopped reaching for the pot. She smiled the tiniest little smile.

“Maybe,” she said, her whole body drooping. “Maybe that's what I am.”

Finn lowered the pot and took it back to the kitchen. He was so pale that the colors of the pot looked garish next to him. I would have liked to have taken it from him. It didn't have to mean anything. It didn't have to mean we wouldn't see him again.

“June,” Finn called from the kitchen in his hoarse, worn-down voice. “Can you come here a sec?”

When I got in there, he hugged me. Then he whispered in my ear. “You know that pot's for you. No matter what, right?”

“Okay.”

“And promise me you'll only serve the best people from it.” His voice was cracking, splintering up. “Only the very best, okay?” His cheek was wet against mine, and I nodded without looking at him.

I promised. Then he squeezed my hand and pulled away from me and smiled.

“That's what I want for you,” he said. “I want you to know only the very best people.”

That's when I broke down and cried, because I already knew the very best people. Finn was the very best person I knew.

That was the last time I saw that teapot at Finn's house. The last time I ever thought I would see it. Until the day it showed up on my doorstep.

I ripped open the rest of the packaging, then stood the teapot on my dresser. It was exactly the same. I picked the lid up from my bed and went to put it on the pot. That's when I saw there was something inside. At first it looked like just a scrap of the packing paper, but it was folded too neatly. Then I saw my name on it.
For June
. A note? Maybe from Finn? A rush of joy and fear rose up in my chest.

I rewrapped the pot with all the bubble wrap, but I kept the note out. I settled the teapot into the box and looked at it again. No return address and no stamps. How could there be no stamps? For a second I had the stupid thought that maybe the ghost of Finn had brought me the teapot. But then the mailman came back into my head. When I thought about it, it hit me that there was nothing official at all about what he was wearing. A navy blue baseball cap and a navy jacket? My parents would have killed me for opening the door. But there was something more than that. Something about the way he'd looked at me. What was it? Why was there something familiar? And then it clicked. It was the guy from the funeral. The guy who Greta said was a murderer. A chill shimmied through my body. He'd come right up to my front door.

I grabbed the note off my bed and slid the box to the very back of my closet. I vaulted down the stairs and grabbed my coat. I stuck the note in my coat pocket and then, even though it was getting dark, I left for the woods.

Twelve