this is what I wrote:
1. My
2. Daddy
3. Isn’t
4. Coming
5. Home.
6. He
7. Is
8. Forever
9. GONE.
I know it was wrong,
but they were the
only words my hand would write.
The day after that,
Mama pulled me and
Charlie out of school,
on account of our
mental trauma.
She didn’t say we had no
car anymore.
I think she was ashamed
of that part.
EYES
Daddy called his car
My Fair Lady.
Mama never had a car.
Gran told Mama
she could take us
to school every day
if Mama needed her to,
but Mama said
no, thank you.
She’d teach us herself
for a while.
Mostly she just leaves
worksheets on the table
and then forgets to ask
if we did them.
It’s not right, those kids
not getting school learning,
Gran says.
I don’t mind so much,
not going to school.
I never liked it anyhow.
But Charlie, she goes looking
for more worksheets
when she’s done.
I don’t want to get behind
for when we go
back, she says.
I hope we never
go back to school.
You’re crazy, I say when she’s
stacked more sheets on top of
the ones Mama left us.
Least I won’t be dumb, she says.
Charlie has these really blue eyes,
like a clear winter sky.
My daddy had those eyes,
and they’d dance when he was
laughing and when he raged, too,
so we never knew
which one we’d get.
Will I be dumb
if I don’t go to school?
Well, that doesn’t
change my mind.
I still don’t want to go.
FRIENDS
Josh and Brian,
my two oldest friends,
used to stop by after school,
and we’d run in the woods
together until suppertime.
But after a few weeks,
they stopped coming.
They live down the road,
not even half a mile
in either direction,
so I still see them ride by
on their bikes once in a while.
I can usually hear them coming.
I stopped shouting their names
after the fourth time they passed by
like they hadn’t even heard me.
I reckon some kids think
a daddy leaving
is contagious.
MILO
I don’t need friends, though.
I have Milo.
Milo isn’t big, and he isn’t small.
He has shiny black fur,
one blue eye,
and one brown one.
That’s how come I knew
he belonged with us,
because he had
all our eyes in his two.
My daddy brought him
home from work one day.
He said someone dropped
him off and then just left.
I can’t imagine doing that to a puppy.
Mama said we’d give him
a home for a little while,
but I knew he’d stay for good.
WOODS
I’m Milo’s favorite person.
We wrestle and run together,
but most of all we walk
through the woods,
down to the dirty pond
Charlie jumped in once
on a dare.
Milo likes to swim in it.
That’s one thing I won’t do with him.
Snakes live in that black water.
I’ve seen them, heads bobbing
like little sticks,
only sticks don’t float
and turn to look at you
and suddenly disappear.
I love the woods
because I can hear my daddy
singing here,
in the music of the birds,
in the music of the trees,
and in the music of me and Milo
crunching dried-up pine needles
under our feet.
I think he lives here now.
I haven’t told Mama.
She would look at me
with those sad eyes,
and then she’d cry herself to sleep.
I don’t like that kind of music.
So I come here
and let him sing to me,
like it’s our secret.
SMILES
Milo gets silly in the woods,
since it’s cooler under the thick trees.
It doesn’t get too cold
in Houston, though.
It’s mostly wet, heavy air
and hot rays of sun.
That’s one of the things
I like best about it.
Milo rolls onto his back,
smashing needles and leaves
underneath him,
legs pawing the air.
I rub his belly,
and he smiles at me.
Most people don’t know
dogs can smile.
Milo smiles at me
all the time, and I’m glad,
since I don’t see
too many smiles anymore.
When a daddy leaves,
he takes all the smiles
with him.
LEAF
Come on, boy, I say.
It’s getting close to dark,
and I promised Mama,
after running off like I did
on her birthday, that I
wouldn’t stay out here
once the sun went down.
She’s never said sorry
for coming home like she did,
tripping around like my
daddy used to do.
Charlie says Mama’s
under a lot of stress,
on account of her job
and Daddy leaving
and the schoolwork
she has to make sure we do.
I think she adds
that last part to make me
feel guilty or something,
and it works, just a little.
I did my work today,
before coming out here.
I race Milo back
through the trees, toward home,
and I can almost feel my daddy,
running right behind me,
the way he used to.
When we’re almost home,
Milo’s feet uncover a leaf
shaped exactly like a teardrop.
I pick it up and stuff it
in my pocket
so it doesn’t crumble.
Why do I pick it up?
I reckon it’s like me.
Different from all the others.
I’m the only boy in town
whose daddy was a criminal.
SISTER
When I say
Charlie’s eyes are blue
like a clear winter sky,
I mean it.
Josh and Brian,
back when we
were still friends
and I still went to school,
called her the prettiest girl
in the sixth grade.
I don’t really know,
since she’s my sist
er.
They’d talk about her
sunshine hair and blue-sky eyes,
and I’d tell them to stop being dumb.
They’d just keep talking.
And I had to listen,
unless I wanted to go
play all by myself,
which I didn’t.
BRAVE
Me and Charlie
used to be real close
when we were younger,
on account of all the moving
and leaving our old friends behind
and making new ones every year,
but then we moved here
where Mama and my daddy
lived when they were
first married,
and we stayed.
Mama picked this place.
She said she wanted
me and Charlie to know
my daddy’s family,
but I think what she
really wanted was help
with my daddy.
He hated it here,
with Gran and Granddad
right across the street
and Aunt Bee fifteen miles
down the road,
all these people
checking in on him
when he pulled in our driveway
too long after sunset.
The night my daddy left,
Charlie’s eyes got real dark,
like a storm lived there.
Charlie loved my daddy,
even on the nights
he walked in the door
like he was trying not to fall over,
nights when he’d throw
ashtrays at Mama
and trip over chairs
like he didn’t even see them.
Charlie was the only one
brave enough to stop him
when he turned mean.
CAUGHT
I shift in my chair.
I’ve been sitting for too long.
Aunt Bee turns on the water
at the sink, her back to me.
I stand, thinking if I’m fast
and quiet enough,
I might sneak out
before she turns back around.
Finish your work, Paulie,
Aunt Bee says.
Her eyes fix on me.
I’ll do it later, I say,
inching closer to the door,
but she catches my hand.
Hers is small but strong.
Your mama doesn’t have time
to make sure you do your work,
Paulie, Aunt Bee says.
And Gran says you run wild
in those woods all day.
That’s why I’m here.
Sit down.
She sounds so much like Gran
that I sit back down.
Aunt Bee is nineteen years
older than my daddy.
She’s short and wide
and starting to gray,
but she still looks young
in the eyes.
NUMBER
Mama’s sending us back, Charlie says.
No? I say. It comes out
like a question.
Yeah, she says, and her eyes
tell me the truth.
She told me so last night.
Soon as fall comes
we’re going back.
Fall is not far enough away,
and Josh and Brian were
my only friends.
When we moved here,
Mama said we wouldn’t
ever have to start over again . . .
but I will. My daddy
fixed that real good.
I look down at my papers,
a whole stack of them,
with the number 9 skipped
on every page. I let out a
deep, long breath,
and Milo jumps to his feet
under the table. I feel him
brush against my legs.
I need a break, I say.
Aunt Bee pulls out a chair
and drops into it.
Her butterfly pin catches the sun
from the window,
and I squint against the light.
She shakes her head,
black-and-gray curls
bouncing against her face.
Your work, Paulie.
She taps the stack.
You’re almost done.
She pulls one of the
finished sheets closer
and points to the number I hate.
You forgot this one, she says.
She flips the sheet over
and then looks at the next.
I don’t answer because
I can see she knows now,
in the way her eyes turn soft.
Aunt Bee is smarter than
anyone I know.
Maybe that’s why
I ask a question instead.
Will Mama leave, too?
It takes her a long time to answer.
She stares at me with Granddad’s eyes,
and it’s almost like she can see
all the way through to the
very bottom of me.
What does she see there?
She doesn’t smile, just pats my hand.
Your mama won’t do
what she did the other night,
if that’s what you’re asking, she says.
It’s not what I’m asking,
so I say it again.
Will she leave, though?
Aunt Bee turns to the window
and stares outside.
It’s a beautiful day, Paulie.
Why don’t you take a break?
You can come back to all this later.
She stacks the papers up
real nice and neat.
It might have been better
if she had just lied,
because the storm starts moving
in Charlie’s eyes again.
I push back from the table
and walk toward the door,
Milo beside me, and when
I start to run,
into the waiting woods
where my daddy lives.
APOLOGY
Mama stops by our room
on her way down the hall tonight.
Charlotte, go get me
some water, hon, Mama says,
and Charlie climbs down
from the top bunk
and is out the door so fast
I know they’ve planned it this way.
Mama sits on the side of my bed.
She taps the sketchbook open on my lap.
What’s this? she says.
A shoe, I say.
She doesn’t seem to notice
that it’s my daddy’s shoe
because she says, Looks real nice,
and smiles.
Mama hasn’t smiled at me
since my daddy left.
It warms me all over.
Charlotte says you know, Mama says.
She brushes hair away from my eyes.
About going back to school.
What I also like about not going to school
is I haven’t needed a haircut since I left.
My hair looks like my daddy’s now,
straight brown strands that stop
right above my shoulders.
I’m sorry I didn’t
tell you, she says.
It’s okay, I say,
even though it’s not.
I’ve learned that sometimes
it’s okay to lie to Mama.
It’s just . . .
Mama’s voice cracks,
like the words are
hard to push out.
I don’t look at her
because I know what I’ll see.
Mama tries again.
I know school
was hard on you after . . .
I fill in the blank without
saying any words.
She looks at me,
and I stare back this time.
I just can’t do it, Paulie.
I can’t teach you both
and work, too.
She takes my hand,
and I know this is
her apology.
All your friends will be
so glad to see you.
Mama smiles again.
You’ll be just fine.
I don’t tell her about
Josh and Brian pretending
like they can’t hear me anymore.
Mama stands and turns toward the door.
You can come back in, Charlotte, she says.
I see Charlie standing right outside the door,
looking like a shadow in the hallway light.
She hands Mama the cup of water
and climbs back into bed.
Mama stops at our door.
I love you kids, she says.
And then she walks down
the hall to her bedroom
and closes the door behind her.
SHOE
I’m not thinking
of school anymore.
I’m thinking about how a shoe
can tell a story, too.
He wore them all the time.
He was wearing them
the night he left.
I know because I saw one of them
on the television screen Aunt Bee
turned on after all those
flashing lights went dark.
It was a ways from his crushed-up car.
I reckon my daddy’s shoes kept going
even after he lay still.
It wasn’t the lead story
on the news that night,
on account of some space probe
landing on Mars without crashing
and my daddy’s favorite musician
releasing a Christmas record.
Mars 3 and John Lennon’s new music
were bigger news
than a man dying, I guess.
But the local station picked up
my daddy’s story, talking about
the bar fight that ended in murder
and a car that lost control and
two men shooting the man
who missed the curve.
Why would two men
shoot my daddy
when he was already dead?
They never found those men.
That same night I heard
Mama tell Aunt Bee
that my daddy turned weak
a few years after I was born,
on account of the Vietnam War
and all those people
he had to kill.
She was crying
when she said it,
so I couldn’t tell if she was
angry or just real sad.
STRONG
Mama called my daddy weak
for what he did.
We have this picture