While He Was Away (9 page)

The picture surprised me, the way it showed Ravi sitting across a picnic table from a man—his dad, maybe. In the picture, Ravi and the man are playing chess, intently focused on the board between them. Ravi’s hand is poised above a white piece, a queen, I think. I tried to figure out who was winning until I realized how much time had passed, me lingering there, and then I left Ravi’s page, and I never went back.

One day Linda passed me in the hall and told me that she thought I was depressed. If I didn’t snap out of it soon, she was taking me to a psychologist.

I don’t need a psychologist. I need the school year to start.

For now, I take a deep breath and try again to find my way to David—another message in a bottle flung out to where I believe he is, in care of the U.S. Army.

Hey there,

Here’s what hurts for a
good
cause:

1. Every part of me, missing you. How are you? How’s Kuwait treating you? Only a couple more days and you’ll be on your way to Iraq. I try to imagine you where you are now. Since I don’t really know what you’re doing, I imagine you doing things I’ve seen you do. Sleeping. Reading. Drawing. Listening to music. Making friends the way you so easily do. Unlike me.

2. My tattoo doesn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t itch anymore either, which means it’s healed, I guess. Hope yours are too.

3. Linda still sometimes goes ballistic, seeing my tattoo. Okay, yeah, whatever, I guess that kind of hurts. I mean, I wish she’d just accept it, you know? When I remind her of the belly-button piercing that she has but I don’t, she usually calms down a bit. I mean, I could have done something way worse than a discreet tat. For instance, I could sport a neon-green domino stud in my belly button like she sometimes does.

She’s at work now, domino stud-less. She left with a warning: “It’s been quite a week, and I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, but I’ve got something I need to discuss with you, pronto. I’m coming home early, soon as I can, so we can discuss it. You better be here.” I hate the word “discuss.” It never means what it’s supposed to mean.

4. My head hurts from carrying around all the things I want to tell you that I’ll never be able to fit into an email. When will you be able to Skype? I want to see you, over there.

5. I’m trying to write a letter to my long-lost grandmother, but I can’t seem to get started. Painful.

6. It hurts to look at my drawings. They’re that bad. I can’t believe it’s only a month until school starts. I’m supposed to have done stuff this summer, right? Worksheets and journals and readings and drawings? Well, I’ve made a dent. But I’ve still got a long way to go, which should be driving me crazy, except guess what? Except for the drawing part, I don’t care.

I love you, and that doesn’t hurt at all—or only in a good way.

Write already, okay?

Penna

I press
Send
.

•••

But still I want to hear David’s voice.

So I do what I’ve been doing for the past twelve days when I feel like this. I pull out the letters he wrote me all last year. I start from the bottom of the stack. The first one is written on the drawing paper that he loved best—which isn’t cheap stuff. It’s written with his Rapidograph pen.

Penna—

Can’t sleep. Keep thinking about today, the sculpture garden, you. Geronimo!

I’m in. I’m totally in. Hope you’re in too.

I never had this happen before, the way it’s happened with you. We met because we’re doing something we both love to do. I like it that I saw your painting before I saw you, before I knew anything about you, and I thought, I’ve got to meet the person who painted that. You were Painter of Awesome Killdeer first. Friend second. And now—now…

I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I’m going to put this in your locker before you even get to school. Find me between classes, or I’ll find you. Have lunch with me. We can eat outside. The weather’s supposed to be great. Oh, that’s right—this is your first Oklahoma fall. It’s the best time of year here, I think, and in the spring. Let’s eat outside every day we can.

David

P.S. If you have to stay after school for any reason, I can give you a ride home on my bike after soccer practice.

There was always a study session or an art project to work on. I found lots of reasons to stay after school.

•••

I call Bonnie, but she’s not home yet from work.

I need to see David at any age. I break down and call Ravi to ask about those photographs.

Ravi doesn’t answer.

Probably skateboarding. Or sleeping the day away. Or doing something I don’t want to do right now, or probably ever. Like playing chess.

I don’t leave a message for Ravi. Holding my cell in my tattooed hand, I will it, I will it, I will it to ring.

Nothing happens.

I set the phone on my desk. I’m in the kitchen getting something to eat when I hear it ring.

I race back to my room, flip it on.

“Hello?” I gasp, leaning against the bedroom wall.

“Penna.”

I
willed
him.

“David!”

“Can you hear me?”

“Perfectly!” I slide down the wall onto the floor. “This is perfect.”

“Good.” I hear the smile in his voice. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah. Missing you, that’s all. Did you get my emails? My letters?”

“Not with what’s been going on. The only way I could have gotten a letter is if you’d written one way before I left.”

I swallow down my guilt. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” David continues. “It’s been crazy here, connection-wise, all-kinds-of-wise. There was this wild, once-in-a-million-years sandstorm that started just after we landed. It screwed everything up. It settled down about a week ago. But then another one came. And we’d just gotten our lines up and running again. Now I just hope we make it to Iraq before another one hits.”

“You’re okay, though?”

“Yep.”

“I’m just so glad you’re okay!” This is the truth. Just this. Nothing else matters.

He laughs. “I
am
. I’m hot. Real hot, all the time. But okay.” David coughs. Clears his throat. “Hear that? That’s me hacking out sand. Can you believe it? I’m still coughing out sand. My eyes and ears are gritty with it. It’s a killer, I’ll tell you.”

My eyes sting as if I’m the one who braved a sandstorm. Then I realize I’m about to cry. No time for that. I wipe my eyes. “Where are you staying?”

He laughs. “We call them circus tents. Cute, right? They’re these big white tents with air conditioning and cots and a wood floor. There are about fifty guys in my tent. No privacy. When me and the guy next to me happen to stretch our arms at the same time, we bang elbows.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. But it’s better than sleeping outside, that’s for sure. That would be deadly. Now that the sandstorm’s done, we’re going to have to work really hard. We had our first real drills these last couple days. It was good to get started.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Listen,” David says. “There are a whole bunch of guys lined up here, waiting. I already called Mom and Dad. I’ve really got to let someone else take a turn.”

I can’t speak. Tears are stinging again.

“I love you,” David says. “If something weird happens again, just know I’ll get in touch as soon as I can. No news is good news.”

“Okay,” I manage to say. “I love you too.”

“You’re my hero,” he says.

And hangs up.

I call Bonnie. She’s crying, right there at her desk at work. In the background, someone is making sympathetic sounds that Bonnie is totally ignoring. “He’s safe,” she tells me through her sobs. “David’s safe.” I let her say that for a while.

Then we agree that we can’t let the waiting get to us like this. Because it’s going to go on and on.

The next morning there’s a knock at the front door.

No one ever knocks at our front door now that David is gone.

I consider not answering it. But the knock sounds again, and suddenly my life—my empty life—overwhelms me.

My robe is flannel, too hot for July. So I throw on one of David’s old cotton shirts and a pair of shorts. Then, tugging my hair up into a sloppy ponytail, I answer the door.

Ravi stands on our porch, a manila envelope in his hands.

All I can think is maybe that envelope is the color of the sand where David is. Manila sand.

“Hi.” Ravi nervously turns the envelope in his hands. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and black jeans. He’s got his sweatshirt tied around his waist. His skateboard is propped against the porch steps. He must be just off work.

“Hi.”

The muscles in Ravi’s forearms ripple as he turns and turns the envelope.

“I brought you those pictures,” he says. “Actually,
copies
of those pictures. I kept the originals for David.”

“Oh.” I remember Bonnie’s description of him—
the
shyest, sweetest boy
. Maybe not so shy anymore. But the other thing. Yeah. I guess he’s that.

“There’s a color copier at work. So…here.” He thrusts the envelope into my hands.

“Thanks.” I push my hair from my eyes. I probably look like I just got out of bed. Because I just got out of bed. I shift awkwardly on my feet, then notice that I should have buttoned one more button on David’s shirt. Plus, there’s the issue of a bra, or lack thereof. I press the manila envelope to my chest. “You want some coffee?”

Ravi shrugs. “I wouldn’t say no.”

We go to the kitchen. I put a pot of coffee on. Ravi waits for me to sit down at the kitchen table, and then he does too.

Together we look at his pictures of David.

There they are, maybe six years old, wading in a stream that is pure Oklahoma—the water rust-red from the clay. David is holding up a dripping turtle. They’re both laughing hysterically.

Here they sit at Bonnie’s counter, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. There are jelly handprints all over the napkins. David’s hands. I’d know them even then, so little.

Now they’re marching in the Fourth of July parade, wearing their Boy Scout uniforms and proudly carrying the banner for Troop 27.

And here they are as older boys, maybe around the time of 9/11. Ravi looks miserable. He’s averting his face from the camera. But even so I can see he’s got a nasty-looking bruise on his cheek, a cut on his lip. David’s not smiling either. But he’s got his arm around Ravi, and he’s looking right out of the photograph, right at me. His gaze says,
This
isn’t right, what they did to my friend. This is wrong.

That’s it. That’s all the pictures. But that’s more than enough. Getting this glimpse into David’s life, I feel like someone’s turned on a light inside me.

Smiling, I look up at Ravi. I start to thank him again. But something in my expression makes him catch his breath and draw back in his chair.

“I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do before work. Like get some sleep. I’ve got to go.” He shoves back his chair and practically sprints from the house.

I listen to the sound of his skateboard skimming away over the street.

Only when the sound has completely faded do I realize that I never gave him that cup of coffee.

•••

That afternoon I stand in the kitchen staring down into a pot of gold. Or a bowlful of sunlight. At least that’s what it looks like—this big glass vat of honey that sits on the sheet of plastic that I’ve spread across the table.

Ravi’s visit helped me. At least it made me want to do something—really do something. Something meaningful.

I set the four molds of our hands beside the honey bowl. I stare at them, remembering how David and I laughed as we pressed our hands into the plaster, how we cheered when they came out perfect. We kissed, careful not to get plaster all over the place. At first. Then we didn’t care.

I take a funnel from a drawer. How am I going to hold a funnel and pour a big bowl of honey all alone?
David should be here to help me
.

No point in thinking things like that.

I put the funnel back in the drawer.

I heft the honey bowl and balance it on my hip. Using my hip as a fulcrum and my left hand as the main support, I tip the bowl forward. Honey spills slowly into a plaster hand—“spills” being the operative word. The honey glops into that plaster hand, the one beside it, and the one beside that until finally I just empty the bowl haphazardly over the four hands, hoping for the best.