Tunes for Bears to Dance To (10 page)

A flash of something in her eyes. Sorrow, regret? He could not tell.

“I’ll come back and visit,” he said. “Maybe we can meet at the library.”

She looked at him for a long moment, seemed about to speak, then reached out and touched his cheek with fingers that trembled on his flesh. “Thank you,” she whispered. She hurried away, almost running.

“I
will
come back,” he called out to her as she disappeared around the corner.

Loneliness, almost unbearable, seized him.

He gathered his courage finally and went to the craft center to say good-bye. Took a deep breath and opened the door. George Graham greeted him with a cheerful shout. “It’s good to see you, Henry. Where have you been?”

Henry glanced quickly toward Mr. Levine’s bench and was glad to see the old man busy at work, hands moving delicately as usual, the bench restored. The village lay spread out before him, sparser than before, not so many buildings or figures. The old man looked up and smiled radiantly at him.

“Did you hear what happened?” the giant asked. Mercifully, he went on before Henry could answer. “Some wise guys, probably from down the street, invaded the place. Damaged Mr. Levine’s village but must have been scared off. They didn’t finish the job, didn’t have time to touch any other benches. …”

“Poor Mr. Levine,” Henry said, wondering if the guilt in his eyes was visible.

“Look at him,” the giant said. “A survivor. He just started over again. Nothing can defeat him. The exhibition has been postponed. Maybe till Christmastime.” Scrutinizing Henry from his great height, he said, “We missed you, Henry. Is everything all right with you? Your family?”

“We’re moving back to Frenchtown,” he said.

The giant relayed the news to Mr. Levine, who got to his feet and embraced Henry. They held each other for a long moment.

“Wait,” the old man said, reaching into his black bag. He drew out a smallfigure and placed it in Henry’s hand. Henry recognized himself, his blue shirt, the tousled hair that never stayed combed. He studied the big smile on the tiny wooden face. Henry Cassavant, three inches high, but smiling and sturdy. He would keep this figure for the rest of his life and look at it sometimes and remember this summer. Someday, perhaps, he would be able to look at it and return the smile.

In the evening of the first day back in Frenchtown, he searched the drawers and closets of the tenement until he found what he was looking for. He ducked out of the house and made his way to St. Jude’s Cemetery. Dusk was gathering, a spooky fog. He speared Eddie’s old bat into the soft earth of the grave. He put the scarred and lopsided baseball at
the base of the bat. He stepped back, admiring the effect. He did not know how long they would remain before being snatched away, but for this one moment, this one evening, Eddie had his monument.

He knelt and began to pray. Prayed for his father and mother and Eddie’s soul in case he was still in purgatory. Prayed for Doris and the old man. And the giant. When he whispered “Deliver us from evil” at the end of the Our Father, he thought of Mr. Hairston. Then he did something he had never done before. He prayed for Mr. Hairston. “Forgive him,” he whispered.

Forgive me too.

He continued to kneel there as dusk deepened into night, bringing a chill that raced along his bare arms, and the bat and ball caught the first light of an emerging moon.