A Map Of The Known World Part 10

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waited. I listened to the shrieking yelps of laughter as other kids were discovered. I felt smug, congratulating myself for finding such a good hiding spot. I heard the singing of crickets. Still, I waited. Twilight was descending, and the sky turned indigo; I could see the evening star. Soon, the cries of other kids faded, and my chest began to feel tight with panic. Where had everyone gone? I wondered. Why hadn't Benji found me? Why hadn't I heard the game called? I stood up, and my legs shook from kneeling for so long. I started walking, but shortly realized that I wasn't moving toward the barn. I became disoriented and frightened. The cornfield went on for acres, and I couldn't see in the gathering darkness any longer. Tears began to fall from my eyes, and I couldn't catch my breath. I was so scared, I began to run. Suddenly, Nate was there.

"Hey, Squirt! Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes scrunched with worry. "I've been looking for you forever." I just shook my head, sobbing now, and Nate picked me up, even though I was too old and far too big to be picked up. Then he carried me out of the maze of corn. "It's okay, I found you," he said. I buried my head in his neck and cried and breathed in his scent, suddenly relishing how safe I felt. How loved.

Now, I sink to the floor, holding up one of Nate's T-shirts to my face, clasping it to my mouth and nose. It was almost five years ago when I first started to miss him, when he first went away from me, when he marched off to eighth grade, grew

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some hair on his lip, and became a giant jerk. When Nate stopped being the brother I had always known and worshipped, the brother who used to take me down to the creek, balanced on the handlebars of his bike. The brother I used to follow bravely, happily, anywhere.

Squirt, which he had always called me with affection, became a weapon, inflicted with a spike of malice. "Get out of my way, Squirt," came to be the best I could expect from him. That turned into "Get out of my way, loser" Then just "Move."

When he died, I felt like someone had taken a softball and punched it through my stomach -- my gut -- because I knew then that the older brother I used to idolize would never, ever come back.

I set the T-shirt down on the floor beside me and begin to dig deeper, moving boots and sneakers, which do not smell nice, out of the way. At the back is a cardboard tube. I draw the plastic cap from one end and crawl out of the closet. I hold the tube up to the light, peering into it, trying to see what its contents are. There are several papers rolled up inside it. Probably more posters, but I snake two fingers down into the tube, tapping on the other end, to try to shake them out, anyway.

Finally, I manage to snag them, and slide them out slowly. The paper is grainy and rough, not poster material. With shaking fingers, I unroll them and let out a low whistle when I see the delicate blush of pigment. Subtle splashes of color and

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fine black lines. It is a series of watercolor paintings, of tree branches, birds, flowers. And Nate's spidery signature marks the lower corner of each piece.

Not in a million years, not in ten million years, would I ever have expected this. He was great. He could have been truly great.

I gather all of the drawings and the watercolors and the wooden box of pencils in my arms and move to the door. The k.n.o.b is warm and cool at once. I pause and look around the room. Could it be? Could he be here with me? Not since he died have I ever had the sense that he was nearby. I don't know if I believe in heaven or any kind of afterlife. But I do know it makes me very sad to think Nate is just lying in the ground, being eaten by worms and maggots. But not sensing his presence makes me sad, too, and so usually I try not to think about it. Yet, with a doork.n.o.b feeling hot and cold at the same time, I start to wonder if maybe Nate is here and, if he's here, maybe he's glad I've found his artwork, glad his secret is finally out in the open, and that I can finally know who he really was.

As I poke my head out into the hallway, I can hear my mom's voice coming from the den. She is probably yelling at my dad about me. And my father is probably just sitting there, taking it. Silent. Absent.

I smuggle all of Nate's things into my room, hide the drawings and paintings under my bed, and tuck the pencil box away

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into one of my desk drawers. I pull out my history book and get ready to do the a.s.signed reading before I go to bed. The Civil War. It used to feel like a civil war was being waged inside the walls of this house when Nate was alive. At first, my parents tried to cajole Nate into behaving. As he grew more reckless, more angry, more defiant, finally, they took to screaming at him, doing battle with him every chance they had. And Nate almost seemed to relish in fighting back. Their sparring would usually drive me into my bedroom, to take cover under my covers. It was b.l.o.o.d.y. And it was awful.

Now, my mother ceaselessly tries to engage my father, but he is unwilling to be drawn into a fight. The house is much quieter, but the silence is worse.

I snap the book closed, I can't concentrate. All I can think of is Nate and how angry at him and at my parents I am. How sick of all this anger I am. It's poison. My body feels like it is humming; I can't sit here any longer. For the second time tonight, I check to see if either of my parents is up and moving around the house. The hallway is silent and empty. Suddenly, I feel possessed by a wild recklessness. I don't care if they do catch me. I am going out, and no one is going to stop me.

I fling open the garage door and run outside. The air is cool and clean. I hop on my bike and start pedaling fast. Faster. I am soaring down the streets of Lincoln Grove, onto the county road, and letting my body lean into each curve, I make my way in the growing darkness to the creek. When I reach the spot, I

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throw my bicycle on the ground and sprint to the weeping willow tree. There, I fall down, hugging the tree's broad trunk for support.

"I can't do this." Sobs are filling my throat, filling the night. "I can't do this anymore. I can't."

What a waste. What a terrible waste. He died and I never really got to know him. I never got to know what he did, what he could do. He will never get to show everybody what he could do. I don't even think he knew what he could have done. My gut burns with the same fiery pain I felt on the night he died.

A tempest is raging inside of me, outside of me, and I feel the sky might fall down, come crashing about my head. The ache inside of me keeps me rooted to the ground, to the base of the willow tree.

What was the point of your dying when the rest of the world keeps going? We have to keep living without you, Nate! We have to live and go to school and eat breakfast and live without you. Julie is making out with other guys, and this stupid world keeps spinning, even without you in it! What is the point? What is the point of any of it? I want to scream at the heavens.

No meaning, no point.

And if the whole world can crumble to pieces at any moment, why should we struggle to make it through the days and months? Why should we pour our hearts into paintings and stories and families and love if the sky could fall down at any moment? Terrifying, terrifying.

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The sun is setting, and the sky is a milky violet, the first star twinkling in the eastern horizon.

What is the point?

As if in response, a strange silvery light falls across the ground where I lie. When I glance up, the moon has risen and hangs low in the heavens. It is a big full moon. As I gaze at it, I can make out the gray eddies of crater and mountain, a whole landscape up there, suspended in the sky. The enormity of the moon sings to me and quells my rage. I feel the singing of the moon in all its h.o.a.ry beauty like a balm. Yes, I am in the world now.

The singing rings and sings in my ears, and I stare out at the land around me. There, just at the edge of the creek bed, stands a slender white bird. Slender and white like a crane. It seems to have simply appeared, and, oh, what an elegant figure it makes. The neck is long and slim and plunges into a curved back in a single, flowing line. White downy wings are tucked tight to its body, and in the moonlight, the bird seems to glow with an ethereal light.

The bird wades into the water, dipping its pointed orange beak below the surface. Its neck arches and bends in one fluid movement, and lifts, its stark whiteness standing out against the darkening trees and rocks and gra.s.s. The bird c.o.c.ks its head, one eye staring curiously at me. I have never seen such a beautiful creature.

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The sweep of its back is subtle and full of grace. I long to sing to it, and my heart longs to sing, too, and all I can do is sit there, transfixed. The bird remains motionless, continuing to watch me, suffering my lingering gaze. Then it turns and bends to stir the water with its beak. All is silent, all is still.

As the warm strength of the tree behind me holds up my back, and I behold the beautiful bird before me, I feel a sudden peace descend. Never have I seen such beauty and felt such peace.

I wish I had my pad and pencils. I want to draw this bird, this perfect wooded spot, with its brown trickling water, cool gray rocks, and bowed and beautiful weeping willow tree. This place I used to share with my brother.

The quiet and beauty of this moment fill my head with a soaring ecstasy. This, this is the world. This is life, able to give us such beauty, such love. And the immensity of these gifts is boundless. I can use my pencils and charcoals and pastels and paintbrushes and capture this moment, capture all of this meaning. There is so much beauty to be found in the world, and art... art is the point.

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Chapter Six.

remember the first time I came to the creek by myself, three years ago. My mother had bought blood oranges -- another first for me -- from the supermarket; they were imported specially from someplace far away, Morocco or Spain, maybe. I had secreted one of the oranges into my pocket as if it were a precious jewel and I a thief, and I'd ridden my bike quickly and directly to the creek. There was no better place to open up the bruise-colored orange-and-violet peel, to open the door to this other world. The creek itself was practically a sacred place for me -- for Nate and me, once. As I sat beneath the weeping willow tree and began to tear away the thick skin, exposing the crimson-purple flesh of the fruit, I imagined I was entering some magical, exotic country. A land of dark-haired, black-eyed women, and sand and secret garden courtyards.

Someday I will travel. I have nursed that fantasy and grown it, in my drawings and maps, in my eagerness to get out of the house, this town. Now, though, now I know what to do.

I ease my bike back into the garage and open the door.

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There is no light. My parents are not in sight. I tiptoe down the hall and up the stairs to my bedroom. Immediately, I reach for my sketch pad and open the box of Nate's pencils. Get to work, Squirt, I imagine Nate saying. Then I begin to make a list.

(I will map the world that I know better than anything. The world, the places I've shared with Nate. And I will finish his last, unfinished piece with this map of the known world. I'll draw the places we used to go and the kids we used to be. Then I will mount this map on the pedestal Nate built.

I grab my cell phone and search for Damian's number. For a second, I feel a flutter in my belly as I remember him taking the phone out of my hands and punching in his number. I'm thankful he did it. Then I push aside the b.u.t.terflies, shoo them out of my system, and dial.

"h.e.l.lo?" His voice sounds scratchy.

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"Hi, did I wake you?"

"No. Cora? Is that you?" He sounds clear now.

"Yeah ... Well, I was calling because I wanted to ask you something."

"What?"

"Do you think I could come to the barn with you after school on Monday? I want to see your studio again," I tell him.

"Uh, yeah, but are you sure? Wont your mom flip out?" he asks uncertainly.

"Well, I'm not going to tell her. I'll just have to make sure I get home before she does," I answer.

"All right, no problem. See you Monday?" he replies.

"Yes, I'll see you Monday." I hang up feeling happier, lighter than I have in a long time. As I get into bed, my heart is filled with hope.

When Sunday comes, I leave the house as the sun rises, hastily making myself a peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwich and stuffing it, along with a drawing tablet and my pencils, in my backpack. I grab the list I made last night and jump on my bike. I will make the rounds today, visiting all of the places that had ever meant something to me and to Nate.

First, I ride to the swimming pool. It is vacant, closed up for the winter. The front gate is chained shut with a ma.s.sive 101.

padlock. I lean my bike up against the fence and begin to walk around it, peering through the chain links, looking at the empty pool. I'm able to see for the first time the steep slope of the bottom, as it graduates from the shallow to deep end. I stare at the waterslide, and find myself picturing my eight-year-old self perched nervously at the top of the ladder, scared to let go and slide down the curving rivulet of water. I can see twelve-year-old Nate treading water at the bottom, calling for me to just let go and slide.

"Come on, Squirt! You can do it, Cor. Come on, I'll catch you! Nothing bad will happen, promise!" he had said. He had been so patient, so kind to me back then. The memory prods like a blunt blade.

I settle down on the ground and, facing the swimming area, pull out my sketch pad and pencils. Hastily, I begin to lay out the sweeping expanse of lawn, reimagining the blue-and-white lounge chairs that dot the gra.s.s in the summertime, the water rushing down the slide, a gang of teenagers gathered around the diving board, little kids splashing noisily in the shallow end of the pool, and old ladies in swim caps and frilly bathing suits slowly doing doggie-paddle laps. I draw it all. And I add a small girl, myself at the top of the slide, Nate at the bottom, coaxing me to come to him.

When I am finished, I pack my supplies and get back on the bike. Next, I ride to the baseball diamond in a park that is a 102.

quarter of a mile from the pool. The park where Nate and I had played freeze tag with a whole crew of kids from the neighborhood. The gra.s.s grows tall in this field -- it always has -- except where a baseball diamond has been cut into it. The stationary plastic bases are anch.o.r.ed into the ground, and the baselines are faded, mostly invisible now. I remember sitting between my parents, squeezed onto the tiny bleachers as we watched Nate play ball with his Little League team. Thermoses of hot chocolate and bags of caramel popcorn were pa.s.sed between my mom and dad and me, as we cheered for the Lincoln Hawks. Nate had played first base, and when he manned his base, his eyes would scrunch up, and he'd stay crouched like a cat, always at the ready to spring after a ball. I was so proud of him. He used to seem so grown-up and capable.

I quickly sketch a picture of cheering onlookers, the Hawks in their pin-striped uniforms, opponents at bat. Then I pack up again and move away from the baseball field. I head out toward the playground that floats like an island of mulch and plastic and steel in the middle of the sea of gra.s.s. I walk through the tangle of swings and monkey bars, give the merry-go-round a shove and watch as it spins and spins. Then I sit down on the tire swing, pushing off the ground with my feet, and lean back as the swing tips and moves jerkily under the uneven weight, then faster and faster. I pump my legs and stand up on the tire, clinging to the chains. They're creaking and groaning, and I really hope that they aren't the same chains 103.