SOMEWHERE THERE WAITETH

The intercom next to the wall clock crackled to life, interruptingthe class. "Mr. Nelson, would you send Carey Schrock to the office,please?"

Carey started and looked around guiltily. Every eye was on him ashe rose slowly from his seat. At the door, he lingered, listening astwo of his classmates resumed their argument over what exactly hadcaused the Civil War.

He resented the intrusion; American History was his favorite classand Mr. Nelson was the best teacher he'd ever had. He didn't evenmind when his students disagreed with him as long as their opinionswere carefully thought out and supported by facts.At last, Carey torehimself away and followed the worn brown linoleum down the hall andaround the corner to the administrative offices. The principal waswaiting for him and Carey felt a moment's uneasiness at the woman'ssomber expression. What could possibly be drastic enough for him tobe called out of class?

"Sit down, Carey," Mrs. Kenshaw invited kindly. Her expression hadsoftened to one of sympathy and Carey felt suddenly cold. He loweredhimself gingerly into one of the chairs facing the principal'scluttered desk and waited.

"Your uncle called," Mrs. Kenshaw began slowly. As she paused,Carey was torn between wanting to drag the words out and wanting tocover her mouth, as if preventing the words would erase whatever badthing had happened. And if his uncle had called the school about him,it had to be bad. Carey pressed his palms together and squeezed thembetween his thighs.

"Your mother's had an accident," Mrs. Kenshaw continued. "She'sbeen taken to the hospital in Decatur."

Carey closed his eyes; he felt as if he were drowning,suffocating. Only this morning, his mother had mentioned going intoDecatur to do some shopping. She hadn't said so, but Carey was sureshe was going to buy a present for his sixteenth birthday, only twoweeks away.

"Is... will she be okay?" he heard himself ask.

"I don't know, Carey," Mrs. Kenshaw answered gently. "Your uncledidn't seem to have any information on her condition."

No, Carey thought bitterly, he wouldn't. He probably doesn't care.

He knew, of course, that the man Mrs. Kenshaw referred to wasn'this uncle at all. Henry Schrock's brother Dale had been his mother'shusband, but he had died more than two years before Carey was born.People insisted on referring to the man as Carey's uncle, but Careyhad always been secretly glad that he wasn't really related to thatstiff-necked, narrow-minded man.

"Don't worry about him, honey," his mother used to say. "He can'thelp what he believes. Just remember I love you and your father lovesyou. Henry can rant and rave all he wants, but he can't changethat."

"I'll drive you to Decatur." Mrs. Kenshaw's voice seemed to comefrom somewhere far away. Carey rose on legs that wobbled and, in adaze, let her lead him out of the office. They made a stop by hislocker, where he stashed his books and pulled on his worn denimjacket. A few minutes later they were driving down Highway 133 inMrs. Kenshaw's elderly Ford.

A steady drizzle fell from the relentless gray skies; Mrs. Kenshawdrove with deliberate care on the slippery road. Grateful that shedidn't speak, Carey stared mindlessly at the flat, unvaryinglandscape. Spring was only a few weeks old and already the fieldswere green with new growth but Carey didn't notice.

Please, God, let my mother be all right, he prayed silently. Iknow there must be hundreds of people praying right now, and there'sno reason why you should listen to me instead of them, but please,God. Let her be all right. Please.

The fervent prayer went round and round, echoing silently insidehis head. It took forty-five agonizing minutes to reach St. Mary'sHospital in Decatur, but at last they pulled into the parkinglot.Numbly, Carey followed Mrs. Kenshaw into the emergency room. Aharried nurse directed them to a waiting room on the second floor,where another nurse informed them that Rebecca Schrock had been takento emergency surgery because of internal bleeding.

Feeling hollow and disconnected, Carey found a seat on a worngreen naugahyde couch near the window in the small surgical waitingarea, really only a niche in the hallway. Mrs. Kenshaw spoke to thenurse a little longer before making a phone call. A few minutes laterCarey looked up to see her standing before him.

"Carey, I'm sorry. Something's come up and I have to get back toschool. Your uncle should be on his way. Will you be all right for ahalf-hour?" Her eyes and voice reflected her concern and compassion;Carey squared his shoulders in an attempt to reassure her.

"I'll be okay. Don't worry."

"All right." She pressed a slip of paper into his hand. "If youshould need anything, don't hesitate to call me. My home number's onhere... Oh, Carey, I'm so sorry!"

She looked as if she wanted to cry and Carey felt the need to bestrong for her. "It's okay," he said, standing. "The roads areslippery so you'd better get going. Be careful; you don't want tohave an accident."

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind he heard the echo ofwhat he had just said. An accident. My mother had an accident and nowshe's in emergency surgery. Dad, where are you?

For a moment he feared the sudden, frantic thought showed on hisface, but Mrs. Kenshaw appeared not to notice. "I'll pray, Carey,"she said. "Goodbye."

"'Bye," Carey answered. He was already sinking back onto the cold,stiff upholstery of the couch, staring out at the unceasing grayrain.

At the sound of footsteps he turned back, thinking Mrs. Kenshawmust have forgotten something. A man in blood-spattered surgicalgreens was coming down the hall and the coldness Carey had beenfeeling all afternoon sent icy tendrils of near-panic racing throughhim.

"Mr. Schrock?"

"I'm Carey Schrock."

"I think I'm looking for a Henry Schrock," the doctor said.

"My uncle. He isn't here yet." The doctor began to turn away andCarey seized his arm. "Please, sir. How's my mother?"

The man regarded Carey steadily. "I think we'd better wait foryour uncle," he said.

Carey refused to release his arm. "Please," he said again. "I'mnot a child. She's my mother! Tell me!"

The doctor's cool blue eyes assessed the boy for a moment beforehe relented. "I'm sorry, son. We did all we could. Your mother passedaway about ten minutes ago."

"No," he whispered as the iciness spread, making him feel heavy ina disjointed sort of way. "No."

"I'm sorry, son," the doctor repeated. He patted Carey's shoulderawkwardly.

"Can I see her?" the boy asked, still whispering.

The man hesitated. Carey met his eyes firmly, willing him to see astrength and maturity he didn't feel, and the doctor nodded slowly.

An impassive nurse took Carey down the hall, pushing through adouble set of swinging doors marked "Surgery." Another, smaller steeldoor was on their left and she pulled it open, gesturing Careyinside. The room was small, floors and walls tiled an ugly shade ofturquoise. A stainless steel counter ran along one wall and a wheeledstretcher was pushed against the other. Carey didn't notice when thenurse left him. Slowly he moved across the floor toward themotionless figure on the gurney. A green surgical drape was pulledover her from neck to feet, but her face was uncovered and Carey'sthroat was tight as he looked at her. A smudge of dried bloodstreaked her cheek, but her eyes were closed and she lookedpeacefully asleep.

"Mom?" he whispered. "Mom?" Gingerly he reached out and touchedher cheek with one trembling finger. Her skin felt cool and naturalunder his hand. He watched her, waiting for some small sign of life,something to prove the doctors wrong. But no matter how hard hestared, she remained motionless.

At last he whispered, "I love you, Mom." He bent and pressed hislips against her cheek. "I love you."

He backed away slowly, turning only when he felt the door frameagainst his back. His body felt as if it belonged to someone else ashe pushed through the heavy double doors and somehow found thestairs. Holding onto the handrail to keep from stumbling, he made hisway to the first level. Glass doors at the end of a long corridorshowed the way outside and a moment later he was leaning against theside of the building, breathing heavily. He was barely aware of thecold rain soaking him, plastering his dark hair against his skull andrunning in small rivers down his neck.

He saw his uncle Henry's red Chevy pickup pull in on the otherside of the puddled parking lot and, without thinking, he shrankback, easing around a nearby corner, pressing himself flat againstthe wall.

If there was anything he couldn't bear right now, it was his unclesanctimoniously proclaiming that Rebecca Schrock's death wasretribution for her sins; Carey knew quite well that his unclecounted her illegitimate son as the most prominent sin.

When he was sure his uncle was inside the hospital, he sprintedacross the parking lot and down the street. He ran until he could runno more, finally stumbling to a stop. Head down, hands braced onspread knees, he gasped for air.

When his frantic lungs began to make up some of the oxygen debthe'd incurred, he raised his head, slowly making out hissurroundings. He had run well over two miles and something, instinctor sheer good luck, had guided his path. He was on the outskirts ofDecatur on U.S. Highway 36.

Resolutely turning the collar of his denim jacket against therain, he started down the highway toward home, twenty-five milesaway.

People who lived in farming communities were usually less wary ofhitchhikers than their city counterparts and it wasn't long before acar pulled up alongside Carey as he trudged along. "You, boy! Don'tyou know it's raining? Get in!"

Gratefully Carey accepted the invitation, seating himself gingerlyon the worn velour upholstery of a small white van.

The driver was a small, middle-aged man wearing mud-spatteredjeans and boots."There's a blanket in the back," he said genially."See if you can get some of that water off of you."

"Thanks," Carey said, reaching behind him for the blanket. Using acorner, he toweled his hair vigorously before folding the blanket andworking its folds between his soggy clothes and the already dampfabric of the seat.

"Don't worry about that, son," the man advised. "You can't hurtthis old car. Where are you headed?"

"Arthur," Carey replied. The farm was actually a couple of milesfrom the tiny hamlet of Arthur, Illinois, but it was the nearest townand Carey called it home.

"I'm not going that far, but I'll let you off at Lovington. It'llsave you a few miles walking, anyway."

"Yes, sir," Carey agreed. "I appreciate it."

He hadn't walked more than a mile out of Lovington before a shinynew pickup pulled up beside him. Nell Gregory, a big, rough woman whohelped her husband farm their acres on the other side of Arthurleaned out and shouted, "Carey Schrock! You get in this truck thisminute! You'll catch your death walking in this rain!"

Mrs. Gregory wasn't someone you argued with and she had to goright past the Schrock farm to reach her own so Carey climbed up intothe cab of the truck quickly.

"What in the world are you doing way out here?" she askedsuspiciously. "Your mother's probably worried to death, wonderingwhere you are!"

"I guess," he said, turning to look out the window. He didn't feelable to contend with Mrs. Gregory's sympathy right now.

"Been to Decatur?" Nell Gregory asked. Carey shrugged and she letout a booming laugh. "Don't you worry, Carey. I'll not tell yourmother you've been to town instead of to school. You just be morecareful about the weather the next time you decide to hitchhike allthe way to Decatur. It's not fit for man nor beast out there."

The rain was falling more heavily now and Carey merely nodded hisagreement.

They fell silent as Mrs. Gregory concentrated on following therain-slick road in the gloom. Carey watched the passing fields andtried not to think of his mother. The truck's heater was pouring outhot air and he was beginning to dry out and feel warm again when Mrs.Gregory stopped in front of the Schrock mailbox."Thanks for theride," Carey said as he opened the door.

"You get yourself inside, now, and get into some dry clothes.You'll be lucky if you don't catch pneumonia," Nell replied gruffly."Tell your mother I said hello!" she added before he closed thedoor.

"Yes, ma'am." Carey couldn't help but smile as she put the truckin gear and roared away. His smiled faded though, as the redtaillights disappeared in the wet, gray afternoon.

Automatically he went to the mailbox, pulling out a small handfulof envelopes and brochures. He trudged up the muddy driveway, leafingthrough the mail as he did so, but the hoped for letter from hisfather was not there.

Letting himself in through the back door, he left his muddy shoesand dripping jacket on the closed-in back porch and went into thekitchen. Out of habit he made himself a sandwich, took one desultorybite and laid the sandwich on the table next to the neat stack ofmail.

Feeling lost and empty, he moved restlessly from room to room,looking for something he couldn't identify. When the phone rang, hejumped. Cautiously he answered it.

"Carey!" His uncle Henry's wife sounded relieved and flustered."When you weren't at the hospital, we didn't know what to think! Howdid you get home?"

"Hi, Aunt Emily," he answered. "I walked and then Mrs. Gregorygave me a ride."

"In the pouring rain!" Aunt Emily sounded shocked. She was akind-hearted woman, but living under Henry's constant disapproval hadmade her excitable. "You stay right there, you hear? Uncle Henry'sgoing to bring you here. Don't worry about a thing, Carey," she addedmore kindly. "You'll always have a place with us."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied dutifully. "I know." And in that instanthe did know that he would never be allowed to stay on the farm alone.He would be expected to live with Uncle Henry and Aunt Emily andsuddenly he knew he couldn't bear it. He didn't remember hanging upthe phone before he found himself stumbling up the stairs.

In his room, he shed his damp clothes and changed into dry ones.Taking a small canvas duffle bag his father had left after one of hisvisits, he began to stuff it with clean socks, shirts and underwear.Rolling up a pair of almost new blue jeans, he wedged them in, too.In the bathroom he added his toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb.

All he needed now was money. Leaving the duffle bag in the hall,he slowly pushed open the door to his mother's bedroom.

It looked as if she had just left it. The bedspread was rumpledwhere she had sat on it and her nightgown was tossed carelesslyacross the pillows. The book she had been reading lay face down onthe nightstand and her closet door stood slightly ajar.

Taking a deep breath, Carey steeled himself against her memory andcrossed to the closet. His mind knew his mother was gone but hisheart hadn't accepted it yet and now there was no time to wrestlewith it. He had to get out before his uncle came.He pulled a squaremetal file box from the back of the closet. If his mother had anyspare cash in the house, it would be here. The box was full ofdog-eared file folders, envelopes and loose papers. An envelopemarked "First National Bank of Decatur" was on top and he picked itup. It felt thick and he opened it as quickly as his cold, clumsyfingers allowed. As he had hoped, there was money inside - twenties,tens, two fives and a few ones. It wasn't a large sum, but it wouldget him away from Uncle Henry.

Laying the envelope aside, he shuffled through the box's othercontents. A vague memory of a discussion he'd had with his motherlast summer, shortly after his father's last visit, prompted hissearch. Now he wished he'd paid more attention to what she'd said.Something about an envelope his father had left... a letter from himto someone who could help if something happened and he couldn't beimmediately found. Swallowing back a sudden rush of pain, Careypulled out a manila folder and peered at the heading.

His mother's filing system, or lack of one, had been along-standing joke. Everything was filed under exasperatingly genericheadings that told nothing about their contents. Carey pulled and setaside several fat folders before opening a file marked "ImportantPapers." Finding the long, slim white envelope sealed and addressedin his father's hand, he drew it out slowly, turning it toward thewindow, trying to read the address in the dim light of the room. Itwas too dark to make it out, but Carey was sure this was the rightenvelope. Now that he saw it, he remembered his mother had shown itto him.

As he moved to replace the file, another envelope caught his eye.This one was clearly marked in large black letters, "Carey's birthcertificate." It was a document that was important to Carey, in partbecause it identified his parents as Rebecca Schrock and GilbertTalley. Dale Schrock's name did not appear on it, confirming the factthat Carey and Henry Schrock were not related. For some reason, thathad become very important to him over the years. On impulse he addedthe birth certificate to the envelope of money and his father'sletter before stuffing the rest of the files back into the box andshoving it into the closet.

Picking up the three envelopes, he started out of the room,pausing beside his mother's dresser. A framed 8x10 black-and-whitephotograph stood on the corner and he looked at it, remembering theday it had been taken, almost two years ago when his father was homefor a visit. They had been horsing around outside, passing a footballback and forth and wrestling playfully. His mother had come outsidewith her camera and started taking pictures.

This was her favorite, a closeup of him and his father, dusty anddisheveled, their arms around each other, laughing at the camera.Surrendering to another impulse, Carey picked it up. In the hall, heopened his duffle bag and worked the picture down between the softfolds of his clothes where it would be protected.

Removing the money from its envelope, he placed it in his wallet.The other two envelopes went inside his shirt where he could feelthem, stiff and scratchy against his skin. Later he'd find a better,safer way to carry them but for now there was no time.

In his room again, he raided his own private stash of money,adding the few bills to the ones already in his wallet and wishing hehad time to go to the bank for the money in his savings account. Asound outside made him jump - surely his uncle couldn't be herealready?

A cautious peek out the window showed the yard and driveway empty,but the scare made Carey conscious of passing time. Pausing in thedoorway, he wondered if he needed to take anything else. A suddenthought made him go back and grope under the bed, pulling out an old,battered shoebox. Inside the box, neatly tied with string, was everycard, letter and postcard his father had ever sent him. Sometimesmonths would go by without word, but he always wrote eventually andCarey treasured every contact, no matter how small.

Pulling out a shirt and two pairs of socks to make room, he wedgedthe box into his duffle bag, closing it tightly and slinging it overhis shoulder. Downstairs in the kitchen he packed a bag with foodthat would travel well... a loaf of bread, a package of processedcheese, a jar of peanut butter and some apples.

A set of keys hung on a hook near the back door and Carey pickedthem up on his way out. On the back porch he pulled on his damp shoesand took a warm, dry jacket from a hook. With a last look around, heshouldered his duffle bag, lifted his food bag in his other hand andwent out, closing and locking the door behind him.

An old white GMC pickup was parked next to the barn and Carey wentto it, tossing his gear onto the floor of the cab as he slid behindthe wheel. He didn't have his driver's license yet, but like mostfarm kids, he had learned to drive years ago. Because it was mainlyused around the farm, the pickup wasn't in the best of shape. Careychanged the oil and filters more or less regularly, but it didn't runexactly right and its tires were all but bald. He had no choice,however. His mother had been driving the car...

Pushing that thought away, he used the key from the kitchen hookto start the reluctant engine, coaxing it with a gentle, practicedfoot on the accelerator. "Come on, Max. Don't let me down."

As if in response to the affectionate name, the truck's roughchoking idle settled into a more even rumble and Carey put it in gearand headed east, away from Decatur and his uncle. A few miles downthe road, when he was sure he was safe, he stopped to fish hisfather's letter out of his shirt. Using the truck's dome light, heturned the envelope toward its dull glow and read the address neatlyprinted there.

"New York, New York," he read aloud. "Who does Dad know in NewYork?" It was a silly question because his father seemed to knowsomeone practically everywhere, but who in New York did he know wellenough to trust with the sort of responsibility this letter woulddemand. Well, it was a question that wouldn't be answered sittinghere. With a sigh, Carey carefully placed the letter and the envelopecontaining his birth certificate into an inner pocket of his jacket,put Max back into gear and began his trip to New York City.

He stuck to back roads, partly to avoid traffic and partly becausehe was afraid his uncle might be looking for him... worse, he mighthave alerted the police to look for him. Upon reaching Indiana, hefelt safer. The gas gauge was rapidly dropping toward the empty mark,so he stopped at a convenience store/gas station in the town ofCayuga.

A steady drizzle was still falling, wetting the roads. Because ofthat and the state of the tires, he had driven with extra caution.Between his caution and wrong turns caused by navigating unfamiliarroads without a map, it had taken him nearly three hours to travelwhat was probably not much more than fifty miles. He was glad of achance to stretch his legs as he filled the truck's tank. Inside, headded two soft drinks and a map of Indiana to his purchase, partingwith some of his precious store of money.

In the truck again, he studied the map, quickly learning that thesprawling metropolis of Indianapolis lay between him and New York.Most of his driving experience was on the dirt roads of the farm andthe few times he had been permitted to drive down the county blacktopwas to a neighboring farm; traffic was something he wasn't accustomedto dealing with and the mere idea of transversing a huge city likeIndianapolis terrified him.

With a pencil, he marked out an alternate route, one that wouldtake him well north of the city. It would probably cost him a hundredmiles in extra distance travelled, but it would be worth it.

Five hours later he was driving slowly down a lonely country roadin rural Indiana when the steering wheel began to tug at his hands,pulling to the right. A moment later he heard the characteristicflapping sound of a flat tire. Muttering in irritation, he pulled thetruck onto the muddy shoulder and climbed out gingerly to examine thedamage. Sure enough, the right front tire was flat.

With a sinking heart, Carey remembered exactly where he'd left thespare tire... leaning against the side of the barn back home.Frustrated and angry at his own lack of foresight, he hammered theside of the truck with his fist. There wasn't likely to be anytraffic along this particular road at two in the morning so he wasstuck here until after daylight. His hand ached from the punishmentit had taken against the sheet steel of the truck and he cradled itagainst his body as he climbed back into the relative warmth of thetruck.

Once inside, he thought of two other things he should have broughtalong but didn't... a towel and a blanket. Here he was, dripping wetand shivering in a rattletrap of a pickup with bad tires and a heaterthat barely worked with no way to dry himself and no way to keepwarm. Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he pulled a t-shirt out of hisduffle bag and used it to absorb the worst of the moisture from hishair and jacket before spreading it out over the dashboard. Hopefullyit would dry there so he could wear it later. Arranging the dufflebag against the passenger door, he curled himself as best he could onthe seat, head pillowed on the rough canvas of the duffle bag andfeet wedged under the steering wheel. Pulling his lined denim jacketaround him more closely, he stared unseeing into the darkness. He hadbeen running on adrenalin ever since leaving the hospital, afraid tostop moving for fear he would remember things he didn't want toremember. It had been a very long day, full of events which hadexhausted him mentally, physically and emotionally. Slowly his bodybegan to relax and the rigid hold he had held on his mind began toslip. Before he knew it he had fallen asleep.

The rising sun woke him from a garbled dream of his father and,clinging to the last traces of the dream, he enjoyed a brief momentof pleasure before reality set in. Stiff from his cramped position onthe truck's seat, he worked his way into a sitting position, rubbingat his gritty eyes.

The rain had stopped. The sky was still largely overcast, but thesun was managing to thrust a few rays through the thinner veil ofclouds to the east. Carey allowed himself to hope that things werelooking up.

Climbing out of the truck, he stretched before going around toinspect the right front tire. No genies had come in the night torepair it, so he dug the jack out from behind the seat and set towork. The muddy ground worried him, but he worked the base of thejack down into it and braced it with some rocks he found in a nearbyditch. When he felt it was as secure as he could reasonably make it,he jacked up the truck and removed the wheel. Rolling it around tothe driver's side, he waited for someone to come along so he couldhitch a ride to the nearest town.

He didn't realize how bedraggled and muddy he looked, standingforlornly by the side of the road and it was nearly two hours beforea farmer stopped and motioned him to toss the mud-caked wheel intothe bed of his pickup.

It was fifteen miles to town and the farmer was kind enough todrop Carey off at a full-service gas station, but it was another hourbefore a mechanic got around to repairing Carey's tire.

"Sure you don't want a new tire, boy?" the man asked, wipinggreasy hands on an equally greasy rag. "This one's in pretty badshape."

"Can you fix it?" Carey asked anxiously.

The man considered, examining the worn tire carefully. "Yeah," hesaid finally. "But it probably won't last you long."

"How much would a new tire cost?"

The man named a price and Carey did some fast mental calculationsinvolving distance left to travel, price of gas, and Max's averagempg. The cash in his wallet, which he'd thought more than sufficientwhen he left home, now seemed woefully inadequate."I only have a fewhundred miles to travel. You'd better just fix the old one," hedecided.

The mechanic gave an indifferent shrug and bent over the tire.Because he was also tending the cash drawer and had to stop each timesomeone bought gas, it was nearly an hour before the repairs werecompleted.

It was afternoon before Carey got back to his truck. He had walkedmore than three miles, rolling the tire beside him, before a boyabout his own age offered him a ride. Returning to the truck, Careyfound it listing badly, its axle buried in mud.

Together, he and the boy, Scott, managed to disentangle the jackand reset it securely. After getting Max jacked up again, the hub hadto be cleaned before the wheel could be remounted. Both boys were amess when they finally lowered the jack and the truck rested firmlyon all four wheels again.

"Thanks for your help," Carey said gratefully.

"No problem," replied the other boy. "Listen, why don't you comehome with me for a shower?"

Carey hesitated.

"Come on," urged Scott. "My parents are at work. Nobody'll seeyou."

Carey's face felt stiff and unnatural. "How..?"

"A lucky guess," Scott replied. "You look like a runaway. Or atleast somebody who needs help and is afraid to accept it."

Carey managed a small, abashed grin. "A shower would feel great,"he said, following Scott to a farmhouse a few miles away.Once clean,he felt considerably more human, but refused Scott's invitation tostay for dinner.

"I need to get going. I've wasted most of the day already," hemotioned in the general direction of the setting sun. "Thanks foreverything."

"No problem," Scott said genially. He watched Carey pull out ofthe farmyard and waved until the white truck turned onto the blacktoproad.

The brief contact with a friendly face bolstered Carey's spiritsand restored a little of his faith in other human beings. He droveinto the gathering dusk with a lighter heart.

He had just crossed into Ohio when the truck began to shudder andagain, the steering wheel tugged to the right. With a violent curse,he guided the truck onto the road's shoulder and got out. This time,even Carey knew the tire couldn't be repaired; it had simply shreddedand long strips of rubber hung loosely on either side of the wheel.Hauling out the jack, he set to work. What was left of the steelbelts inside the tire scratched him when he pulled the wheel.Dropping it, he examined the long bloody furrows left on the insideof his forearm by the ragged steel wires. Wiping the blood onto hisshirt, he picked up the tire more carefully and began to roll it backthe way he had come.

He was sure he remembered seeing a tire store not more than a mileback and its lights had still been on; he hoped that meant they wereopen.

The wheel didn't roll well and Carey's back ached from bending topush it; his hands were scratched and sore from the steel belts. Ashe reached the tire shop, a man was just turning out the lights.

"Sorry, son, we're closed," he said, pulling out a thick ring ofkeys.

"Please," Carey begged in desperation. "I need a tire tonight.Please."

Looking at Carey's tired face, streaked with blood where he'drubbed his hand on it, the man relented. "Okay," he said. "Bring itin."

Carey followed him into the shop, rolling the contrary wheel withhim.

"What sort of tire did you have in mind?"

"I don't know," Carey answered, remembering the price quoted tohim only that morning. "Do you have, maybe... something used?" It waswhat he should have asked when he had the tire repaired, but ithadn't occurred to him until much later.

The man looked from the shredded tire to Carey's face. "Yeah, Imight." In a corner of the garage was a pile of discarded tires andthe man sorted through them, tossing the heavy circles of rubberaside easily until he found what he was seeking. "Here you go."

It was obviously worn but it had a little tread left. It wascertainly better than the tire it was replacing and Carey noddedgratefully.

With a few smooth, practiced motions the man removed the old tireand replaced it, filling the new one with air. Carey handed over someof his precious cash and prepared to leave. When he realized Careydidn't have a car, the man insisted on driving him to the truck butCarey refused any further assistance, waving until the man'staillights disappeared around a corner. It required only a fewminutes to replace the wheel, tighten the lug nuts and lower the jackbefore Carey was on his way again.

He managed another hour of driving before weariness caught up tohim. Pulling into a roadside rest stop, he found a parking place awayfrom the two big trucks and few other cars stopped there and got outto stretch his legs. The muscles of his lower back, strained fromrolling his shredded tire into town, had stiffened during his driveand now screamed protest at his every move. Feeling like an old man,Carey limped to the lighted restrooms, where he did his best to washoff the dirt and blood accumulated in the last few hours. A littlecleaner, he limped back to the truck, forced down a dry cheesesandwich, curled himself up on the stiff vinyl seat and went tosleep.

By morning, the temperature had dropped and it was raining again.To top things off, the truck wouldn't start. Wondering if he waswandering around under his own private black cloud, Carey popped thehood and stiffly got out to take a look. After tinkering for a fewminutes he persuaded the engine to catch, but it sounded terrible andkept threatening to die. Back in the cab, one foot gently patting theaccelerator, he pulled out his newly acquired road maps as he allowedthe engine to warm up.

It didn't look like much more than six hundred miles to New York.Of course, he admitted wryly, it had taken a day and a half to travelthree hundred miles. But he had a decent right front tire now and theleft front wasn't too bad. The engine wasn't happy but if he babiedit, it would get him there... he hoped.

The next big city he wanted to avoid was Columbus, Ohio and heplotted a route that would take him slightly south of it.Stopping inthe next town for gas, he treated himself to a cup of coffee,drinking it behind the wheel, small sips interspersed with bites ofthe peanut butter sandwich that was his breakfast.After an hour, thetruck began to wheeze pitifully; Carey slowed, treating it as gentlyas he could, but it finally coughed painfully and died just outsideof Zanesville, Ohio and nothing Carey could do would induce it tostart again.

"I'm sorry, son," a reluctant mechanic told him much later. "I canfix it if you want, but it'll take three or four days just to findthe parts. To be absolutely honest, it would cost more to fix it thanthis old truck's worth."

Carey was dismayed. It had taken half his cash just to have poorold Max towed. If he didn't have the truck, he didn't know how he wasgoing to get to New York.

"If you want, I'll take it off your hands for you," the man wassaying.

Carey looked at him sharply. At not quite sixteen, he couldn'tlegally own or sell the truck; surely the man knew that. This newaspect of the mechanic's character made him rethink everything thathad been said.

It was true that parts for Max were hard to come by and forseveral years his mother had been threatening to get rid of it forjust that reason. Carey was no mechanic, but he knew enough about theworkings of an internal combustion engine to know that thisparticular one was just about done for.

"The bus station's about five blocks that way," the man went on,pointing. "You can catch a bus to wherever you're going."

It made good sense and, reluctant as he was to part with Max, whohad been a member of the Schrock family since well before Carey wasborn, he made a deal, accepting less than the truck was worth becausethe man would pay him in cash. After carefully counting the fewbills, he pocketed them and went to get his gear from the cab of thetruck. Somehow, poor Max looked forlorn, standing grimy andmud-streaked in the lot beside the repair garage. Feeling foolish,Carey rested his hand on the dash for a moment. His mother had alwayscontended that Max ran better if you patted his dash and talked tohim. Carey had a niggling suspicion that, had he done so, Max mighthave gotten him safely to his destination.

"Oh, come on," he told himself aloud. "It's only an old pickuptruck. It can't hear you."

Max has feelings, too, he heard his mother say. He saw himself,perhaps six years old, sitting in her lap while she permitted him tosteer down the bumpy dirt lane that edged one of their corn fields.Don't forget to talk to him. She was whimsical sometimes and liked toencourage his imagination. It was she who had named the truck Max andhis father had enjoyed teasing her about it.

His throat suddenly tight, Carey flung himself out of the truckcab, shouldering his duffle bag and marching off without a backwardlook. By the time he reached the bus station he was soaked through bythe steady drizzle and beginning to shiver from the cold, but he hadhold of himself again and knew he wouldn't cry.

At the counter he inquired about a one-way ticket to New York Cityand was informed that one bus had just departed and the next wouldnot leave until five o'clock that evening. By now, Carey was used tobad news and didn't even flinch. "How much?" he asked, and slid therequired amount through the little opening in the grille. Tucking histicket safely in his wallet, he turned away, acutely aware that itspurchase had left him with less than five dollars in his pocket. Thetrip to New York, he had learned, would take more than twenty hours.

In a corner, he found a seat and took stock, realizing for thefirst time that, in his haste, he had left the plastic sackcontaining what was left of his food supply in the pickup. Heconsidered and immediately discarded the idea of going back for it.The truck was part of his past, and he wanted to look forward, notback. Resolutely, he determined to make his five dollars last, ekingout the food he could afford to buy with it. A little voice insidehim reminded him that five dollars wasn't going to go very far, butif he didn't find the person he was looking for when he reached NewYork tomorrow, it wouldn't matter anyway.

He bought a chocolate bar just before he boarded the bus, breakingoff small pieces and allowing them to melt in his mouth before heswallowed. In this way, he made the candy last more than an hour andwas left feeling not too terribly hungry. Candy wasn't verynourishing, however, so when the bus made a longer stop later thatevening, he allowed himself to purchase a cup of vegetable soup atthe bus station snack bar. The price was appalling, but he knew heneeded to eat.

After the first hour, the bus ride was incredibly boring and Careyfound his mind wandering to his parents. Thinking of his mother alonestill made his throat uncomfortably tight, but thinking of his motherin conjunction with his father comforted him.

When he was little, it seemed perfectly natural that his fathershould show up from time to time with little or no warning.Knowing hewouldn't stay long, Carey and his mother would alter their lives tosurround him. There was always an emptiness when he left, and asCarey grew older he began to question it, resenting the fact that hisfriend's fathers stayed home and his did not.

"Your father is what he is," his mother would explain gently. "Hecan't help it. Dale had some of that restlessness, too, but he was afarmer at heart and that helped keep him home. Your father is awanderer. If we tried, we could probably keep him here, at least fora while, but he would soon become unhappy and that would make usunhappy. Isn't it better to know that when he's here, he truly wantsto be here?"

"No!" a young and selfishly thoughtless Carey had cried. "I wanthim here all the time!"

He suspected his mother had said something, because the next year,when Carey was ten, his father stayed all summer and into harvestseason, helping on the farm and making Carey the happiest boy in theworld. But in the end, even Carey's youthful, exuberant joy couldn'tblock out his father's restlessness. When Carey asked when his fatherwas leaving, he had given tacit approval for his father's departure.Somehow, knowing his father would give up his freedom made the actualsurrendering of it unnecessary.

In the past couple years he had become more aware of therelationship between his parents. As a child, he hadn't questionedhis father's erratic visits or the casual way he would take upresidence in the master bedroom. Carey had only recently noticed thathis father always left his gear in the living room, allowing hismother to carry it upstairs. It had finally dawned on him this washis father's way of allowing his mother a choice; if she put histhings in her room, he was welcome there.

Carey was quite sure that if his mother had ever put his father'sthings in the spare room, he would have slept there without a word ofprotest, but it had never happened. Though his parents loved eachother in their own way, it wasn't the kind of all-encompassing lovehe read about or saw in movies; it was a comfortable kind ofcamaraderie demanding nothing of either partner. More of a romantic,Carey had begun to wonder if he could ever sustain a relationship asdetached as theirs. A large part of him believed in theonce-upon-a-time, happily-ever-after kind of love and wanted it forhimself someday, while another, more pragmatic part insisted thatsuch a thing was for fairy tales, but at not quite sixteen, he wastoo young to be worrying about love and marriage anyway.

The motion of the bus as it traveled through the night wassoothing and he closed his eyes, drifting back and forth betweenmemory and reality.

The story of how his parents met was one it seemed he'd alwaysknown. His father and his mother's husband, Dale Schrock, had becomefriends when Dale had been indulging his own restless spirit with alittle global wandering after college. Carey didn't know the detailsof how they had met, but it had something to do with polo ponies inArgentina.

Five years later, his father had been passing through southernIllinois and had decided to visit his old friend Dale. Arrivingunannounced on the Schrock farm, he learned that his friend had beenkilled the year before in a farming accident.

Rebecca Schrock had been struggling to run the farm alone when herhired man quit, right at the start of planting. Introducing himselfas Gilbert Talley, Carey's father stayed the summer, workingalongside Rebecca, planting and cultivating the fields. Carey didn'tknow when his father moved from the small apartment behind the barnto the main house, but it must have happened sometime that summer orCarey wouldn't be here. Driven by his restless spirit, his fatherfound a new hired man and left just before harvest. When his motherlearned she was expecting a baby, Gilbert Talley was nowhere to befound.

It was this, as much as anything, that made Dale Schrock's brotherHenry sovocally contemptuous and harshly judging. The mere idea ofhis brother's widow "carrying on" with another man a year after herhusband's death was a desecration of Dale's memory, according toHenry. Rebecca's audacity in brazenly bearing the other man's child,and worse (in Henry's eyes), allowing the boy to carry Dale's namewas beyond forgiveness.

Two years later Gilbert Talley returned and Carey's mother enjoyeddescribing his reaction to the chubby little dark-haired, dark-eyedboy who toddled toward him, diaper drooping, a pull-toy chatteringbehind him.

"It was priceless, Carey. I could see him trying to count back.There was no way he could deny you, though. You look too muchalike."

"I would never deny him, Becky. I was just hoping he was mine,"his father spoke up in his own defense.At this point his mothergenerally threw something in the direction of his father's head andthe discussion came to an end.

As the gentle swaying of the bus stopped, Carey šPis eyes.Outside the window, he saw a small cafe/bus station and he wassurprised to look east and see the sky faintly streaked with pink; hemust have fallen asleep. Some passengers were stretching and gettingto their feet while others slept on, undisturbed.

In a quiet voice, the driver announced a half-hour stop and Careyentered the cafe. It didn't take him long to determine that he couldbarely afford to purchase one order of toast. He counted coinscarefully, sliding them across the chipped formica counter inexchange for the toast and glared at the four pennies remaining. Witha sigh, he picked up a slice of toast and began to eat. He left thefour cents as a tip... he hoped the waitress wouldn't be insulted,but it was all he had and it wasn't doing much good in hispocket.

Just after two in the afternoon, the bus rolled into the Manhattanterminal. Carey climbed down slowly, his bag balanced on hisshoulder. Now that he was actually here in New York he felt apressure, a cold sense of dread, weighing on him. Pushing itresolutely aside, he found the men's room and spent a carefulquarter-hour washing and changing into clean underwear, socks andshirt. He spent another five minutes on his hair, wetting it down andcombing it in an effort to convert the unruly mop into somethingpresentable.

Finished, he was resigned to his appearance. Looking in the dingymirror, he smiled, pretending he couldn't see the barely controlledpanic on the pinched, scared face looking back at him, before makinghis way uncertainly to the street.

Scores of people hurried along the sidewalks, all of them seemingto know exactly where they were going. Ineffectually, Carey triedstopping someone to ask directions. He had the address on the lettermemorized, but no one paused long enough to listen, much less tellhim where to find the street. He was appalled by the casual rudenessas he was bumped, pushed and ignored. Finally he backed into thecomparative backwater of a doorway to catch his breath and orienthimself, watching the ebb and flow of humanity as he did so. While hewas standing there, wondering what to do, it began to rain.

Setting his bag at his feet, he watched the drops falling steadilyand the tide of people beginning to scurry. Surprised by a gentletouch on his arm, he looked down to see a boy of about twelve,dressed in a manner that made Carey think of a street urchin from oneof Dickens' novels.

"Are you lost?" asked the boy.

"Sort of. I mean, I know where I've been but I don't know whereI'm going." With more hope than faith he mentioned the street and theboy's face brightened.

"That's the Upper West Side," he explained. "Near the park. Thatway." He pointed.

Having a general heading to follow gave Carey heart and he liftedhis bag to his shoulder. "Thanks," he said, meaning it, and steppedout into the rain.

His jacket, it seemed, had been damp for days. The only times itwasn't was when it was dripping from the latest rain; he turned hiscollar up in fatalistic resignation. He seemed destined to be rainedon.

Tramping for blocks, he splashed through growing puddles, learninghow to dodge impatient traffic. As he went, he read street signs,looking for the one familiar name.

After a mile or two it occurred to him to look for a phone booth.He passed two before he saw what he was seeking... a phone directory.Wedging his bag between the booth's supporting pole and his feet, hepaged through the listings, running his finger down a long column ofnames. The one he sought wasn't there and, disappointed, he let thedirectory slip back into its slot. He wasn't so backward that hedidn't know what an unlisted number was, but he had hoped that theperson he was looking for didn't have one. He refused to entertainthe small, nagging fear that the person his father's letter wasaddressed to didn't exist, or had moved, or would slam the door inhis face.

He was soaked clear through and his legs were chafed and sore fromthe friction of wet jeans when he spotted trees. Lots of trees.Breaking into an impulsive half-run, he timed the light at thecorner, darting across the street and into the welcoming green ofCentral Park. Finding a bench in the lee of a huge tree, he swipedaway the worst of the water puddled on it and sat down, for the firsttime conscious of how tired he was. His legs ached, his feet and backwere sore and he was beginning to shiver from the cold. He suspectedhe'd found the park the urchin boy had referred to, but he had noidea that a park in the middle of New York City would be so immense.

After a short rest he trudged back to the other side of thestreet, noting with interest he was crossing the famed Fifth Avenue.Patiently he walked the circumference of the park looking for astreet name. He made a few more attempts to ask for help, but eachmet with a terse rebuff and finally, stung one too many times, hegave up. Three or four times he crossed back into the park for ashort rest. Strangely enough, sitting on wet park benches in themiddle of a steady spring rain seemed comforting and each briefrespite gave him the tenacity to travel a few more wet blocks.

The afternoon gloom had deepened to dusk when he finally found thestreet he sought. Staring dumbly, it took a moment for his sluggishbrain to interpret the symbols carefully arranged along the length ofthe sign. His heart leaped with mixed hope and trepidation as he leftthe park behind and started down the side street. Gradually thetowering apartment buildings gave way to rows of townhouses three andfour stories tall. The dark stone facades helped Carey to identifythem as the vaunted New York brownstones and he viewed them withinterest. The idea of living in a house sharing common walls with itsneighbors was intriguing, but it was in diametric opposition to farmlife and Carey found it intimidating. As he moved along, he noted thetraffic on this comparatively quiet residential street was light byNew York standards. As he walked the perimeter of Central Park, hehad wondered how people slept at night with the noise and the lights,but along here it wouldn't be too difficult.

Wrapped up in his musings, he almost passed the house before hesaw its number. It was across the street from him and he paused amoment to assess it. Not the slightest crack of light escaped frombetween heavy drapes and the house had a closed, shuttered look. Butabove, soft light glowed through three high, arched stained-glassfanlights on the second floor. The warmth and welcome of the colorsgave him a fleeting courage. Before it could slip away, he crossedthe street, hurried up the wide cement steps and rang the bell.

His heart was pounding wildly and he dragged in a deep breath ofair, trying to steady himself. The heavy front door was framed withsmall rectangles of stained glass and he stared at the one beside thebell, trying to make sense of its colorful pattern. He had begun tohalf-hope, half-fear that no one was home when a shadow fell acrossthe colored pane of glass and the locks began to click open.

A tall, blond boy about his own age stood in the open doorway."Yes?"

"Is... does Catherine Chandler live here?" Carey stammered.

The boy looked him carefully up and down before nodding.

"I need to see her, please. I have a letter..." He reached insidehis jacket, fumbling for the envelope tucked carefully away.

The boy seemed to ponder a moment before opening the door wide.Carey stepped past him into a small, square vestibule. The boy was atleast six inches more than Carey's own five-ten with shoulders inproportion to his height, carrying himself with an unconsciouslyproud bearing, his innate grace apparent even in the simple actionsof closing and locking the door.Involuntarily, despite his weariness,Carey straightened, squaring his own slim shoulders firmly.

"Wait here," the tall boy said. He went through an inner door,closing it behind him.

Carey remained still, uncomfortably aware that he was dripping acopious amount of water onto what looked like an expensive, ifsomewhat worn, oriental carpet. Shifting from foot to foot, he felt acold, sick knot in his stomach that wasn't entirely caused by thetemperature outside or his wet clothes. Staring at the neat panes offrosted glass in the closed door in front of him, he allowed himselfto speculate for the first time on what he would do if this womancouldn't or wouldn't help him; his cold fingers twisted together inagonized impatience and, after what seemed to be years, the dooropened.

The woman who faced him was older than his mother had been and theslight frown she wore as she studied him gave her a formidable look.Carey gulped.

"I'm Catherine Chandler," she said, not unkindly, and Carey felt atiny flicker of warmth.

"My name's Carey Schrock," he said, speaking quickly. "I think youknow my father."

She was still looking at him intently and it made Carey feelfaintly uncomfortable. "What's your father's name?"

"Gilbert Talley," he answered, and was dismayed by the slow,doubtful shake of her head. "My mother called him something else,though," he offered quickly. "Devin."

The shock of recognition in her eyes was unmistakable and the boywho had answered the door and was now hovering protectively in thebackground made a small, sharp movement of surprise.

"Devin!" the woman repeated. "I knew you reminded me of someone."She was beginning to smile an incredulous smile. "Trust Devin!" shesaid, shaking her head.

An icy rivulet from Carey's hair ran down the back of his neck.He shivered and she seemed to notice for the first time that he wasdripping on her floor.

"You're soaking wet," she exclaimed. "Evan, find him something dryto wear... it had better be something of Jacob's, I think."

The tall boy hesitated an instant before turning to bound, twosteps at a time, up a wide flight of stairs.

"Leave your things here... your jacket, too," the womaninstructed, sounding just like a mother as she helped him peel offthe clinging denim of his jacket and waited while he rescued theplastic bag containing the precious letter from its inside pocket.His hands trembled slightly as he hung the jacket on the hook shepointed out.

"I have a hundred questions to ask you," she said. "I hardly knowwhere to start. But I suppose you'd better come in first."

As she spoke, Catherine Chandler led him into the house proper. Awide hall ran past the stairs and a sliding door at the end of itstood ajar an inch or two. Opening it more fully, she guided him intoa large, cozy room dominated by a huge oak dining table flanked bysix chairs. Five of the places at the table were claimed by theremains of a just-completed meal; she showed him to the sixth chairat the far end of the table.A boy, or rather a young man, aboutCarey's size and only a little older, stood in another doorway; agirl sat in one of the chairs, playing with a crumpled napkin as shestared at him with open curiosity.

The woman... Carey didn't know quite what to call her in hismind... put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Carey," she said, "this is my son Jacob and my daughter Vicky.Evan went upstairs to find you some clothes. This," she announced,"is Carey Schrock. He's Uncle Devin's son."

"Uncle Devin!" the girl called Vicky exclaimed. "Really?"

Uncle Devin? Carey's thoughts echoed silently. He felt suddenlyadrift in a vast sea of uncertainty. "Is my father your brother?" heasked Catherine.

Her amusement seemed out of proportion to the question and Vickylaughed out loud, answering, "My father's his brother. Sort of." Thelast was added with a cheerful shrug that could have meantanything.

"Foster brothers," Catherine clarified briskly.

Jacob had gone into the kitchen and now came out with a steamingbowl, which he set in front of Carey's chair. "You look hungry," heexplained.

Looking at the thick stew, Carey remembered the toast he'd eatenmore than twelve hours ago... the only food he'd had all day andsuddenly he was starving. He made a move toward the table, butstopped when Evan came into the room.

"I tried to find warm things," he said, offering a loose bundle."They're yours, Jacob," he told his brother in an aside. "Nobodyelse's will fit him."

"It's okay," Jacob said easily.

"Here, Carey." Catherine gestured for him to follow her and showedhim to a tiny half-bath tucked under the stairs. "You can change inhere."

Inside, Carey began to strip out of his soaked clothes. The bundleof clothing included a large towel and he used it gladly, finishingby rubbing his hair briskly. Evan had remembered underwear and socksand Carey pulled them on, topping them with faded jeans and a brightred sweatshirt. The jeans were a little too big, but the shirt fitand everything was dry and warm; he couldn't ask for more. He usedhis hands to smooth his hair before folding the towel carefully andplacing it beside the neat pile he'd made of his own clothes.

Shyly, he went back into the dining room, conscious of Vicky'seyes on him as he took his place. As he picked up his spoon, sheleaned forward in her chair.

"Where did you come from?" she asked eagerly. "Where's UncleDevin?"

"Let him eat, Vicky." Catherine chided her daughter gently. "Whydon't you help clear the table?"

Vicky wrinkled her nose in disdain, but dutifully rose and beganto stack plates. Running water and the sound of dishes clinkingtogether could be heard from the kitchen and a moment later Evan camein.

"Oh, you're getting them," he told his sister. "I thought it wasmy turn."

"It is," she informed him, dumping a pile of dishes ratherunceremoniously into his arms. "I'm just being helpful."

"That's a switch." Evan threw Carey a quick grin and went backinto the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes.

Carey was forcing himself to eat slowly, trying to remember allthe manners his mother had drummed into him. He watched the siblinginterplay with mild interest; he'd sometimes wondered what it wouldbe like to have a brother or sister.

Vicky followed Evan into the kitchen with the remainder of thedishes and in a moment shrill voices of dissent could beheard.Exhaling sharply, Catherine rose from her place next to him andwent to the kitchen door. "Evan! Vicky! That's enough!"

The clamor from the kitchen died down and she came back shakingher head. "I'd like to say that's an uncommon occurrence," she saidwryly, "but it isn't."

Carey grinned. "I wouldn't know. I'm an only child."

"Me, too. Your mother's a wise woman." She raised her voiceslightly for the benefit of the teenagers who were coming through thedoor. "Only children are vastly underrated. There should be more ofthem."

"Aw, Mom, you don't mean that," Evan said, grinning. "Think howlonely you'd be without us."

"If you were the mother of an only child, you wouldn't have me!"Vicky tossed her head, preening in an overtly obvious manner.

"You see, Mom, you should have stopped with me!" Evan said.Duringthis cheerful conversation, Carey had finished his stew and Jacob hadquietly refilled his bowl. Now he finished the second helping andpushed the bowl away, his appetite sated."Come on," Jacob told hisyounger siblings when he returned from the kitchen. "Let's goupstairs."There was good-natured grumbling as Evan and Vicky followedtheir brother out of the room.

"All right, Carey," Catherine said when the sliding door wassecurely closed. "Tell me why you're here."

"My father left a letter... in case something ever happened. Mymother was supposed to send it to you. I guess I was scared sendingit wouldn't be good enough, so I brought it myself." As he spoke,Carey extracted the now limp and smudged envelope from its plasticwrapping and slid it across the table.

Her eyes on his face, Catherine picked it up. She studied him amoment longer before turning her attention to the letter. Careyhardly dared to breathe as she slowly opened the envelope andunfolded the damp sheets of paper inside.

She read it slowly, smiling once or twice as she did so. When shefinished, she sighed, laying the papers on the table and sliding themback to him.

"Go ahead," she nodded. "I'll wait."

Cautiously, Carey picked up his father's letter and began toread.

 

Dear Chandler,

This is one of those letters that is left behind in case anything happens. If you're reading it, then I guess something's happened. There's a woman in Illinois. You'll find her address and phone number at the end of this letter, but first I'd like to tell you about her. She's wonderful, Chandler. Brave, intelligent, determined. In short, everything I'm not! I love her, but I guess not enough because I can never stay very long before my feet start getting itchy. She deserves a lot better than me, but you've probably already figured that out.

The most special thing about her, though, is that she's the mother of my son. Bet that surprises you! Looks like me, too, though you'll be glad to hear that's where similarities end. He's a great kid, smart, polite, dependable.

I need you to take care of them for me, Catherine. I know you'll do it because that's the kind of person you are. Love to you, Vincent and the kids.

Devin

Carey's head remained bent over the letter for a moment. When helooked at Catherine again, her head was tilted slightly as sheregarded him with quiet sympathy. "Where's your mother, Carey?" sheasked gently.

"She died. On Monday." With the words, the wall Carey had socarefully constructed around that terrible knowledge began tocrumble, and he put his head down on his arms and started to cry.

It was some time before he became aware that she had left herchair to kneel beside him and stroke his hair. Taking a deep breath,he swiped at his wet eyes with his sleeve. "I'm sorry," heapologized, mortified.

"Don't be. Don't ever be sorry about grieving for someone youlove."

He tried a watery smile. "It just hurts so much," hewhispered.

"I know. I know it does. Don't fight it." After a moment he feltfully in control again.

"Thank you."

"If you need someone to talk to, or just to be with, I'mhere."

He nodded his understanding, grateful for her quiet compassion."Do you know where my father is?"

"No. I'll ask, but I don't think anyone's heard from him in two orthree months." She regarded him with a small frown. "Doesn't he keepin touch with you?"

Carey looked down and shook his head. "Not very well. We getletters and postcards sometimes, but..." He shrugged. "He mostly justshows up."

To his amazement, she laughed. "That's Devin. Don't worry, Carey.We're sure to hear from him sooner or later."

"But what'll I do about Uncle Henry?"

"Who's Uncle Henry?" she inquired.

Haltingly, he told her about Henry Schrock, and with a few gentlequestions, she extracted the entire story of his trip east. "I don'thave any money left," he finished, eyes fixed on his clasped hands."I don't have anyplace to go."

Her hand covered his. "You're a part of our family, Carey. You'llstay here."

He looked up, hope flaring. "But what about Uncle Henry?" He askedthe question again, visions of his uncle coming to drag him forciblyback to Illinois dancing through his head.

Her mouth tightened. "Don't worry. I'll take care of Uncle Henry."Her determination was such that it never occurred to him todisbelieve her.

"You're exhausted and I've kept you up talking," she added as hestifled a yawn. "Let me show you where you'll sleep."

She took him to a bedroom on the third floor. "This is my sonCharles's room," she explained, turning on the light. "He's away atschool and won't mind if you sleep here."

Quickly she pointed out the other three bedrooms on this level andshowed him where to find the two bathrooms. "Please make yourself athome, Carey. If you need anything, just ask." She hesitated. "If youneed me, my bedroom is on the second floor, to the right as you godown the stairs. I'll send one of the boys to find you something tosleep in."

"Okay." Carey hesitated. "Excuse me, but... what should I callyou?"

She gave a small laugh. "Your father once told me he answered tojust about anything. I'm beginning to feel the same way. My husbandcalls me Catherine, my friends, Cathy. I have a boss who calls meRadcliffe and your father never calls me anything but Chandler.Choose whatever you'll be most comfortable with."

He had grown up in a slightly formal family and the idea ofcalling someone old enough to be his parent by her first name madehim uncomfortable. He ducked his head shyly. "Is Aunt Cathy okay?"

She smiled. "Aunt Cathy is fine." She came close and kissed hischeek. "Goodnight, Carey."

"Goodnight, Aunt Cathy."

She went out, closing the door behind her and Carey turned toassess his surroundings. The room was large and high-ceilinged. Onetall window in a corner looked toward the back of the house. Twinbeds, neatly made, stood against one wall. A nightstand with a lampstood between them; against another wall were a dresser and bookcase,while a desk occupied the third wall. Each piece complemented theothers, creating a pleasing atmosphere.A tap on the door made himturn. "Come in," he called.

"I brought you some pajamas," Evan said, placing them on the footof one of the beds. "Mom says to let you get some rest, so I'd betternot stay, but my room's right over there if you need something."

"I know. She showed me. Thanks." Carey found himself liking Evan'scasual friendliness.

"No problem," the other boy said. "Goodnight." He started out,then seemed to remember something and turned back. "It's only fair towarn you, since you're in this room... you will never, ever be ableto use this bathroom." He pointed to the room next door. "Vicky usesit. For hours on end."

"I do not!" Vicky's indignant voice loomed out of the darknessbehind Evan.

"Two hours this morning."

"I suppose you were timing me!"

"Rigged a gizmo yesterday," Evan agreed.

"You did not!" She looked past Evan. "Goodnight, Carey. See youtomorrow."

Carey grinned in spite of himself. "Goodnight, Vicky." She wentinto her room and closed the door a little too firmly. "Did youreally fix up something to time her?" he asked Evan.

"Nah. Too much trouble. I could if I wanted to, though.Goodnight."

"'Night."

Carey knew he was dirty, but he was also bone-tired from threedays of travel with only a few scattered hours of tense, fitfulsleep. Feeling vaguely ashamed, he decided to wait until morning fora shower. Changing into the pajamas Evan had left, he opened thedrapes on the single window and slipped under the covers of the bednearest it. After he switched off the bedside lamp, he lay stiffly,suddenly wide-awake despite his fatigue.

At home, the night sky was inky black, lit only by the stars andmoon. Here, the city itself gave off a glow that illuminated thetrees behind the house and reflected off the low-hanging clouds. Thehypnotic movement of the tree branches and the soothing sound ofraindrops brushing the window screen lulled him and soon he began torelax. I like it here, he thought drowsily.When his eyes openedagain, the room was filled with sullen light. Raindrops stillspattered the window and the skies outside were the same leaden graythey'd been all week. Carey stretched languorously, feeling thestiffness that was becoming almost familiar. He lay quietly for amoment, listening, but the only sound was that of the rain beatingagainst the roof. Silently, he stole out of bed and went to the door,which stood a few inches ajar. There was still no sound of life fromthe house beyond. Turning, he spied a white sheet of paper on thedresser.Dear Carey, the note read. The kids have school and I have togo to work, so you're on your own for the day. Please make yourselfcompletely at home. You're welcome to anything you find in thekitchen. There are books in the study, a TV and VCR in the parlor.Here's a housekey in case you want to go out. Please lock the housebehind you if you do. If you need me, I can be reached at 555-7817.Love, Aunt Cathy.

Replacing the note on the dresser, Carey picked up thebrass-colored key that lay beside it. He gave a rueful glance towardthe window. "Thanks, but I think I've had enough of walking in therain," he said aloud. Someone had left more clean clothes, and, aftera much-needed shower, Carey dressed and ventured downstairs.

He went to the kitchen first. The note had been quite specificabout making himself at home so, feeling only a little out of place,he scrambled eggs and made himself some toast. Choosing to sit at thesmall table in the kitchen, he ate his breakfast quickly, washing hisdishes and stacking them to dry before beginning a cautiousexploration of the house.

He found the parlor right next to the dining room and went in toexamine the promised television set. He ran his finger along theselection of videotapes, which included a number of old movieclassics and thought he might try one or two later, after he'd seenmore of his surroundings.

He stuck his head into the living room, but its somewhat sterilefurnishings didn't appeal to him, so he went up the stairs to thesecond floor. Unlike the hallway on the third floor, which ran forseveral yards in each direction and had, by actual count, six doorsopening off it, this hall was no longer than the stairwell, with asolitary door at each end. The one on his right, to Aunt Cathy'sbedroom, he remembered, was closed, but the one on the left stoodinvitingly ajar and he went to it.The room beyond was large. Thestained-glass windows he'd seen from outside the night before werehere, and just as magnificent from the inside. Two desks stoodopposite. The larger one, closest to the door, was meticulously tidy.The other one, while neat, had three or four fat volumes stacked onone corner with a not-quite tidy sheaf of papers next to them.Careywandered around the perimeter of the room, examining an occasionalbook title, but not removing any from the shelves just yet. A smallarrangement of framed photographs hung on a wall and he stopped tostudy them, recognizing Jacob, Evan and Vicky at different ages.Another boy appeared in many of the pictures and Carey guessed thatwas Charles.

As he looked at the pictures one by one, he came to one that madehim stop. His father was in the middle with one arm around amuch-younger Vicky and the other across Aunt Cathy's shoulders. Allthree were laughing. Carey experienced a quick, unreasonable stab ofjealousy. He stifled it quickly, feeling ungrateful to the family whohad so readily taken him in and disloyal to his father, who lovedhim. It was absurd to resent him loving anyone else.

He turned away from the pictures and an exquisitely fashionedchess set caught his eye. It was beautiful, each piece hand-carvedand rubbed to a fine finish. Carey picked up the white king toexamine the detail of the carving. Replacing the king on his darksquare, he rubbed a finger over the glossy surface of the boarditself. It was so finely crafted, he couldn't even feel the seamswhere the dark and light squares of wood intersected. Lined up intheir rows, the pieces looked rigid and on impulse, he slid the pawnin front of the white king forward two spaces. The board looked lessaustere with a game in progress. Maybe tonight he could persuade Evanto play him a game.

Going back to the history section of this extensive privatelibrary, he chose a volume on the Civil War and settled down toread.

By mid-afternoon he was tired of reading and had moved to theparlor. He was stretched out on the comfortable sofa there, watchingan old movie when he heard the front door open. He found the remotecontrol, fumbling a little at its unfamiliarity before he managed tohit the pause button.

"Hi," Jacob said from the door. "What are you watching?"

"'Driving Miss Daisy,'" Carey answered.

"Oh, yeah, that's a good one," Jacob agreed. He had a zipperednylon bag slung over one shoulder and a brown paper shopping bag ineach arm. Carey rolled off the couch and went to take one from him."Thanks," Jacob said. "They were getting heavy."

Carey followed him into the kitchen and set the bag on thecounter.

"What did you do today?" Jacob asked as he began to put thegroceries away.

"Not much. I read for a while and watched some TV."

"You probably feel a little strange here."

"Yeah. What's really different is that there's nothing I'msupposed to do. It feels weird."

"I'll bet." Jacob was silent for a moment. "Carey, I'm sorry aboutyour mom."

Carey looked down. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk aboutit." To his vast relief, Jacob let the subject go, turning the talkto other, more casual things.

Vicky arrived home a little later and barely had time to say "Hi"before disappearing up the stairs. After a while, Evan came incarrying muddy baseball spikes and a damp glove.

Last home was Catherine, arriving just as Jacob was setting dinneron the table. He directed Carey to the chair he'd occupied the nightbefore. "It's Charles's place, really, but you can sit there for now.We'll figure out something else when he comes home."

Carey wondered a little at the necessity of 'figuring somethingout,' because the chair at the opposite end of the table wasconspicuously empty. It was even stranger because Carey was almostsure a place had been laid there when he arrived last night. Shakingit off, he took his seat. Catherine, after hesitating a moment, satbeside Jacob. Plates were served and, for a moment, the only soundwas the chink of stainless steel on earthenware. The quiet didn'tlast long, however, and Carey was content to simply listen to thevaried conversations that went on around him. When the meal ended, heoffered to help with the dishes but Catherine shook her head and drewhim aside.

"Carey, I talked to your uncle today."

Carey felt his face go white.

"It's all right," she assured him quickly. "He's agreed to let youstay here for a while, if that's what you'd like to do."

Carey was almost limp with relief. "I think I'd like that," hewhispered. "I can't go back there now." He didn't know how she'dgotten around Uncle Henry's determination, but he was glad shehad.

"Carey." The quiet way she said his name, her voice full ofsympathy and regret, frightened him. "Your mother's funeral was thismorning."

Carey's gaze shifted from her face to a point somewhere beyond herleft shoulder. He didn't wait for me, he thought bitterly. Aloud, hesaid only, "It doesn't matter. I said goodbye to her at thehospital."

He looked back and was surprised to see the grim set of her mouth."It does matter, Carey, and I told him so."

"It doesn't matter," he repeated doggedly.

She studied his face for a moment and touched his arm. "Allright."

The phone rang and she went to answer it. Carey stood in thehall, dazed, until Vicky came through and took his arm. "She'stalking to Uncle Joe. She'll be hours yet," she explained with anairy wave toward her mother. "Come on."

Upstairs in the study, she threw herself gracefully, if a bitdramatically, on the leather couch. Evan followed more sedately andarranged his impressive height rather casually in a chair.

"What'll we do?" he asked. "Play a game? Dad..." he broke off withan anxious glance at Carey.

"I don't feel like a game," Vicky answered. "Think of somethingelse."

"Why do I always have to think of something?" Evan demandedirritably.

"'Cause you're the brain with all the ideas. Come up with one!"his sister commanded.

Jacob had accompanied them from the first floor, but had gone onto his room above. Now he poked his head in from the hall. "Where'sMom?"

"Still on the phone downstairs," Vicky answered languidly. "Areyou going... to see Amanda?"

"Yeah."

"'Bye." She waved in the general direction of the door. Evandidn't even bother with that small courtesy.

Vicky smiled at Carey impishly. "Jacob has a girlfriend."

"A lady-love," Evan added.

"A woman for whom his heart beats more quickly," Vicky declaimed,placing a dramatic hand over her heart. She giggled. "He and 'Mandahave been in love since they were eleven," she added to Carey.

Catherine's entrance brought an end to this interesting, ifsomewhat confusing, exchange. She regarded the three teenagers with alittle frown creasing her forehead. "Why don't you kids go downstairsfor a while," she suggested. "I have some work I need to do."

"What?" Evan seemed surprised and Carey saw Vicky administer afurtive kick to his ankle.

"Okay, Mom," she said agreeably. "Come on, guys."

Catherine closed the study door behind them and Carey heard thedistinctive snick of a lock being turned. That's funny. Why would shelock the door when nobody's here but us three kids?

Downstairs in the parlor, Evan lit a fire in the fireplace andstretched his considerable length along the hearth. Vicky usurped thecouch and Carey made himself comfortable in a large overstuffedchair. He liked these kids, and enjoyed their spirited verbalbattles. He was half-hoping they'd start another one, but instead,Evan looked down and said gravely, "I'm sorry about your mother,Carey."

"Me, too," Vicky chimed in softly. "Mom told us last night. Iguess we didn't know what to say."

Carey shook his head. He had a sudden vision of his mother'sfuneral with no one there to mourn her but Uncle Henry and AuntEmily. No one who loved her, he thought in sudden agony. I'm sorry,Mom.

He bent his head, choking back sudden tears. It was a hard battle,made more difficult by the gentle hand placed on his shoulder and aminute passed before he was able to wipe his eyes. It was a mildshock to learn that the comforting hand belonged to Evan. For somereason he had imagined it to be Vicky's, but she was sitting, headdown, stiffly motionless on the couch.

"It's okay to cry, you know," she said suddenly. Carey wasastonished to see that her eyes were wet.

"I know that," he replied with dignity. "I'm not ashamed of cryingfor my mother. It's just embarrassing to keep doing it in front ofpeople."

"We aren't just people, Carey. We're family." With that gentlyprofound statement, she threw herself back on the pillows arranged atone end of the couch. "Tell us about where you live."

Accepting the change of subject thankfully, he began to tell themof the farm. Inevitably his father was drawn into his stories andfinally Carey spoke of his mother.

"She had to work really hard because of the farm," he said, lyingon the floor and staring hard at the ceiling. "It didn't make aprofit... family farms are really a thing of the past, but I thinkshe liked the challenge and she had some money from when her husbanddied. My father sent money sometimes, too, but she always used thatfor me.

"The hardest thing," he went on, voice trembling, "is that I can'tremember what I said to her that last morning because I was in ahurry. She always used to say "I love you," last thing before I wentto school, and I don't think I even said goodbye." For a moment noone said anything.

"It's late," Evan said finally. "Let's go to bed."

* * * * *

As if to make up for the week of wet gloom, Saturday morning wasclear and bright. Carey woke early and went downstairs quietly,trying not to wake anyone who might still be sleeping. To hissurprise, he found Vicky already up, rummaging indiscriminatelythrough the refrigerator.

She greeted him with a frown. "Hi. Any ideas for breakfast?"

He blinked. "No. What do you usually have?"

"Cereal. Toast. On Sundays when he's here, Jacob makes bacon andpancakes and all sorts of good stuff, but today's Saturday."

"I know." He looked over her shoulder at the refrigerator's neatlypacked interior. "Lots of stuff in here. We ought to be able to comeup with something."

"Can you cook?"

"Not very well. I can do eggs and stuff, though."

"You're on!" As if someone had thrown a switch, Vicky shifted fromgrouchy slow-motion to vivacious energy as she thrust a carton ofeggs into Carey's hands.

"What else do you need?" she asked, obviously prepared to assist.

"A pan. Some butter... How do you like your eggs, anyway?" heinquired, a little taken aback.

"Scrambled. Sunnyside up. Over easy. Benedict. You cook 'em, I'lleat 'em."

"Over easy, then," he suggested gingerly.

"Great. Here's the pan Jacob always uses."

Carey placed a bit of butter in the pan. When the butter began tosizzle, he broke four eggs into it. "Can you make toast?"

"Toast I can handle," Vicky promised.

"Where is everybody?" Carey asked a few minutes later, as theyate.

"Sleeping, probably. Mom's idea of heaven is staying in bed 'tilnine o'clock and she doesn't get to do it very often, and Evan's anight person. He's never up this early unless he has to be."

Carey nodded his understanding. "I like mornings," he said.

"So do I. My brother Charles and I are always the first ones up.And Daddy."

Carey had been wondering about that. "Where is your father?"

Vicky looked past him, thinking. "Not here," she said after amoment.

"Is he coming back soon?"

"Oh, sure. Do you want that last piece of toast?"

Carey declined and she began spreading it with raspberry jam astheir talk turned to other things. After breakfast they did thedishes, laughing because they kept getting in each other's way. Atlast Vicky closed the dishwasher door and hung a damp dishtowel on ahook. "I'm going to my friend Cassie's," she announced. "What are yougoing to do 'til everybody gets up?"

Carey pondered. "Read, I guess. That reminds me, I was reading abook yesterday and I left it in the big room upstairs... thestudy?"

She nodded and he went on. "Anyway, when I came down, the door wasclosed. Do you think it would be okay if I went in and got it?"

"Sure. The door shouldn't be locked. Just be quiet so you don'twake my mom."

"I'll be careful. Goodbye."

"'Bye!" Pulling on a jacket, Vicky went out the front door,leaving Carey alone. Conscious of every small sound he made in thesilent house, he crept up the stairs. The study door opened easilyunder his touch and he entered quietly, crossing to the table wherehe'd laid the Civil War book. It was still there and he picked it up.

As it had yesterday, the chess board caught his eye and he pausedto admire it. The white pawn he'd moved had not been replaced;instead, someone had moved the black king's pawn out tochallenge.Carey grinned and moved his queen's knight, at the sametime wondering which of his cousins he was playing with.Going up tothe third floor, he stretched out on one of the beds in Charles'sroom and opened his book. He spent part of the morning reading andpart of it keeping Evan company while he ate breakfast.

"Do you like baseball?" Evan asked as he devoured cold pizza,washing it down with a can of Seven-up.

"Sure," Carey said. "Why?"

"I have a game this afternoon. Want to come?"

It sounded a lot better than spending another aimless afternoonalone. "Okay."

Catherine came in then, looking rumpled and sleepy. "'Morning,boys," she greeted. "Didn't anybody make coffee?"

"I don't drink it," Evan answered brusquely, pushing back hischair. "I'm going upstairs."

Torn between going with Evan and staying, Carey finally opted tostay. Catherine's sigh as Evan left made him think... well, he wasn'tsure what he thought, but she had been nice to him and he didn't wanther to think he didn't appreciate it.

"I can make coffee," he volunteered.

"Can you? That would be nice, Carey," she said a bit absently,gazing after Evan.

"Would you like me to fix you some eggs?" Carey offered shyly.

At that, she looked fully at him and smiled. "You do that and I'llbe eternally grateful."

While the coffee brewed, he dug out the pan he'd used to fry hisand Vicky's breakfast and produced two more perfect over-easy eggs."Toast?"

"Are there any bagels?"

He brought them to the table, along with the eggs and a cup offresh coffee. "Carey, you're wonderful. Were you this much help athome, or are these your company manners?"

He grinned guiltily. "A little of both, I guess," he admitted. "Myfather liked to surprise my mother with breakfast and I learned bywatching him; it got so I'd surprise her sometimes when he wasn'teven there."

"Jacob used to do that," she said between bites. "He spends somuch time... elsewhere now, he doesn't often do breakfasts anymore.

"How do you like New York so far?" she asked as he refilled herempty cup.

"I don't know yet. The only place I've been is here."

She looked surprised and then laughed. "I guess it is. We'll haveto get you out and show you the sights."

"I'd like that. I like it here," he added reticently. "I like yourkids."

She gave him an appraising look. "You and Evan seem to have hit itoff."

"Yeah. He's nice."

She grimaced. "Nice isn't necessarily a word I'd apply to Evan,"she said, "but basically he's a pretty good kid. He's just a littlewild sometimes. Maybe you'll calm him down some."

"Maybe," Carey agreed. Evan didn't seem at all wild to him, butthen he hadn't known him long. He started to carry the dishes to thesink, but she stopped him.

"You cooked. I'll clean up."

It was what his mother had always said and he grinned. "Soundsfair to me."

Upstairs, he found Evan's door closed. Hesitant to disturb theother boy after the abrupt way he'd left the kitchen, Carey went backinto Charles's room and picked up his book.

Nearly an hour later, he heard a door open and rose toinvestigate. Evan was changing into his baseball uniform.

"May I come in?" Carey asked hesitantly from the door.

"What? Oh, yeah, sure." Evan brushed some books and papers from achair. "Sit down."

Carey traversed the room with caution and took the offered seat.He'd glanced into Evan's room yesterday and was astounded by thecomplete and utter disregard for order that reigned. This was thefirst time he'd been inside. He couldn't remember ever seeing a messquite this extensive... obviously Evan never bothered to pickanything up or put anything away. The only thing approachingorderliness was a corner of the desk, where a camera bag, two lensesand a few rolls of film sat in such a way that Carey was sure theyhad been gently placed there. Everything else in the room appeared tohave been tossed, thrown or dropped.

"I'm almost ready," Evan said, kicking at a pile of clothes in acorner. Eventually, a dark blue baseball cap worked its way to thesurface and he bent to pick it up. His baseball glove was on the bedand his jacket on the floor, and Evan swept them both up in onesmooth movement. "Let's go."

Getting his own jacket from Charles's room, Carey followed Evandown the stairs. As they reached the door, they met Vicky coming in."Going already?" she asked. "Wait a minute and I'll come withyou."

"'Kay," Evan agreed, a bit sullenly.

Halfway up the stairs, Vicky stopped. "Is Mom going?" she askedover her shoulder.

"I don't know," Evan answered.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, she turned around to face him. "Doesshe know you're playing?"

Evan shrugged. "I guess. I gave her a schedule at the beginning ofthe season."

"Did you remind her?"

"Why? She wouldn't come anyway. She's always too busy." Evan'stone was fraught with resentment.

"God, you're such a jerk sometimes!"

"She never comes anymore," he said resentfully.

"She does, too," Vicky challenged. "She came to a game a couple ofweeks ago."

"When?" Evan seemed genuinely surprised.

"A couple of weeks ago," Vicky repeated. "On a Wednesday. The caseshe was trying recessed early and she stopped by for about fourinnings. She was late leaving for a meeting with Uncle Joe becauseshe waited to see you bat."

"I never saw her," Evan said, uncertainty creeping into hisvoice.

Vicky threw up her hands in despair. "Evan, when you're playingball, you wouldn't see the Queen of England if she walked through theinfield complete with crown and scepter, unless she got in yourway."

"You really think she'll come?"

"Evan, you are so stupid!" Vicky spun around and marched upstairs,shaking her head in overt disbelief.

"Are you going to get your mom?" Carey asked after a moment. Hewasn't sure he understood the conflict behind this particularconversation, but he did see a flicker of uncertainty in Evan'seyes."Do you want me to ask her?" Carey offered.

"If you want to," Evan shrugged.

Carey trotted upstairs and paused between the two closed doors.Finally, because it was nearest, he tapped on the bedroom door.

"Yes?" Aunt Cathy's voice floated out to him.

"It's Carey," he answered. "Evan has a baseball game thisafternoon..."

He heard the lock click and the door swung open.

"I think he'd like it if you'd come," he finished lamely.

She was dressed casually in running shoes, jeans and a sweater. "Iknow," she said. "He did give me a schedule and I did look at it, soI was planning to come even before he and Vicky held their shoutingmatch on the stairs."

Carey grinned.

"What position do you play, Evan?" Carey asked a few minuteslater, as they walked to the game. The field wasn't far and in NewYork, Catherine had explained, driving a car wasn't time efficientunless you were going a long way. "Nine blocks is an easy stroll andwe'd never find a parking place anywhere near."

"I'm pitching today," Evan answered, flexing his left shoulder."Feels like a no-hitter."

When they reached the field, Evan flung a sketchy goodbye over oneshoulder and jogged off to join his teammates. Carey went with Vickyand Catherine to the bleachers, where Carey was introduced to morepeople than he could possibly be expected to remember before the gamefinally started.

The no-hitter Evan had predicted didn't come about, but he didpitch a shut-out, and drove in the winning run. Carey, Vicky andCatherine all cheered lustily.

After the game, Evan, surrounded by teammates, waved Carey over."My cousin," he said.

Some of the other boys acknowledged the casual introduction withsmiles or nods. "Hey, Chandler," a boy Carey recognized as the centerfielder shouted from the other side of the group. "We're going forpizza! Coming?"

"Bring your cousin," the second baseman suggested.

"Bring Vicky," chimed another boy Carey couldn't see.

Hoots and whistles followed. "Bring Vicky," someone mimicked in ahigh-pitched voice.

Evan grinned and waved his hand in a derisive gesture beforeturning to Carey. "Want to come?" he invited.

Carey glanced over to where Catherine was speaking to anothermother."Your mom's here," he pointed out.

Evan followed his gaze. "So?"

Carey stared at him. Evan's attitude toward his mother encompasseda wide range, from casually offhand to utterly rude and Careycouldn't understand it. Learning to accept his father's need towander had taught him that parents were people too, and the terribleloss of his mother had reminded him of the fragility of life.Suddenly, out of his own pain, he felt a rush of anger toward thisboy who had so much and didn't appreciate it.

"How can you treat her like that?" he hissed through clenchedteeth. "Don't you know how lucky you are to have a mother? I'd giveanything, anything, if I could see mine one more time, and you justthrow it away!" His voice broke as he strangled the tears thatthreatened. In his fury and his pain, he put out his hands and shovedthe bigger boy in the chest.

Instead of retaliating, Evan absorbed Carey's rage, placing asteadying hand on his shoulder with a look of mixed surprise andrealization.

"My mom's here," he told the other boys, most of whom had missedthe quietly angry exchange. "Maybe next time. See you guys onMonday!" More subdued than Carey had ever seen him, he went to standbeside Vicky and, heart pounding in reaction, Carey followed.

"Aren't you going for pizza with the guys?" Vicky asked, with acuriously sideways glance at Carey.

"No," Evan answered. "But you're invited," he added in a valiantattempt to lighten the atmosphere.He expertly dodged the elbow shethrew at him.

Her conversation ended, Catherine turned toward them, a trace ofsurprise crossing her face when she saw Evan. "Aren't you going withthe boys?"

"Not today. Are we going home?"

"Actually," she smiled, "I thought we might walk across the parkto Fifth and see if we can't find Carey some more clothes."

Evan made an agonized face. "Shopping!"

"Pizza, too," his mother promised. "I'll buy."

Because Evan claimed to be starving, they stopped for pizza first.As they waited for their order, Evan looked down at his hands."Mom?"

She turned from what Vicky was saying. "Yes, Evan?"

"Thanks for coming today. I really like it when you're there."

She put a hand on his. "It may surprise you to hear that I enjoywatching my son, the star athlete."

Evan ducked his head. "...I'm sorry I act the way I do sometimes.I love you, Mom."

Carey settled comfortably into the Chandler household during thenext few days. He liked Aunt Cathy. She always found a moment tospeak to him and make him feel he was wanted here.Evan was rapidlybecoming a friend and Carey spent as much time in Evan's disaster ofa room as he did in Charles's. The Chandlers, Carey learned, likedclassical music, and when Evan found out that Carey didn't know muchabout it, he took it upon himself to educate him, setting aside hisother musical favorites - rock groups that even Carey, who liked mostrock, found gratingly weird - for Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven andGrieg.

Catherine commented on it one morning as she left for work."Anyone who can get Evan to play Bach and Mendelssohn instead of thestuff he usually listens to has my undying gratitude."

Carey wasn't sure about Vicky. She blew hot and cold... sometimesshe was friendly, even seeking him out. Sometimes she hardly seemedto notice he was there. Evan advised him to write her moods off tothe vagaries of femininity and, reluctantly, Carey decided he wasright.

Jacob he hardly knew, seeing him only at meals and in passing onthe stairs, but he seemed nice enough.

The only mystery seemed to be Aunt Cathy's husband - his father'sfoster brother. At first, Carey had assumed he was away, perhaps outof town on business. One evening, however, he had gone up to his roomfor something and as he came back down, he heard voices behind thelocked study door... he recognized Aunt Cathy's, though he couldn'tmake out the words. He wouldn't have even paused except that she wasanswered by what was clearly a man's voice.Uncertainly, he teeteredon the bottom step, not wanting to eavesdrop, though he reallycouldn't anyway because the words were indistinct, but baffledbecause he knew the voice did not belong to Jacob or Evan and he knewof no one else in the house.

A day later, he heard the voices again, and this time Evan waswith him. "Who is that?" he asked.

"What? Oh, that's my father." Evan was offhand about it, not evenbreaking stride. Carey stumbled along in his wake, thinking thatsomething was very queer.

The chess game continued. Every day, Carey went into the study tofind that someone had moved one of the black pieces and every day hemade a counter-move with the white. He suspected Evan of being hismysterious opponent until the evening when Evan paused by thechessboard and asked, "Who's playing?"

"I am," Carey admitted. "I don't know who's playing black, though.I thought it was you."

Evan snorted. "If it was me, you'd have lost already," he said,studying the board.

"Modest, aren't we?" Vicky inquired.

Her brother ignored her. "Not Mom... you'd have beaten her bynow."

Carey thought Evan had said that mainly for Catherine's benefitbecause she had just entered the room. Evan had been treating hermuch more carefully since Carey's outburst, his showing his affectionthrough light-hearted teasing.

"Thank you very much," she said with a smile.

Evan grinned back. "Hey, I love you, Mom, but you're a lousy chessplayer."

"Funny. That's what your father tells me."

"Yeah, well, he's definitely getting a better game out of Carey,"Evan said.

"I'm playing your father?" Carey asked in surprise.

"Have to be," Evan said. "I recognize his game." He squinted atthe board. "I see how to get him, though. Want me to tell you?"

Carey looked at the board. Six moves into the game, it was fairlyeven and he had been pondering his next move off and on allafternoon. He needed to decide soon, because, if she followed herusual pattern, Aunt Cathy would soon be asking them to leave thestudy. Evan's offer was tempting, but...

"No, thanks," he answered at last. "It's more fun if I do itmyself." Feeling slightly awkward under Evan's amused scrutiny, hereached out and moved one of his bishops. It was the move he'd beenleaning toward, and, while he wasn't sure it was right, it was thebest one he saw. Looking up, he found Evan nodding in agreement.

"Not what I'd have done, but not bad," he said. "You've got a shotat him. I'll bet Dad's enjoying this. Nobody else around here playsso close to his level."

"He makes Evan spot him a rook," Vicky added, coming to peer atthe game in progress. "The rest of us are too easy for Daddy and hehas to play without his queen. Charles gives him a good game but he'shardly ever here."

"Okay, kids, that's enough. Out." Catherine broke up theconversation and somehow, Carey never did get to ask the questions hewanted to ask.

For the most part, Carey thought he was coping fairly well withhis mother's loss and his father's continued absence. During thedays, he found things to keep his mind occupied and did not allowhimself to dwell on his circumstances. No one said anything about howlong his visit would last or when he would have to return to Illinoisand he resolved to take each day as it came.

Only late at night, after everyone was in bed, did his grief andanxiety surface. He fought it as best he could, his determinationwaging war against the dreadful emptiness inside him. One night, ashe battled his sorrow alone in Charles's darkened room, Vicky tappedon the open door. "Carey?"

Carey turned his head. "I thought you were asleep. It's late."

"Are you all right?" she whispered.

"I'm okay." Furtively, he dashed the tell-tale tears from hischeek. "I was just thinking about my mom."

Coming a little way into the room, she stopped uncertainly. "Iknow. I felt it."

He looked up, a trace of curiosity pushing his grief aside for themoment. "What do you mean, you felt it?"

Vicky sighed and curled up on the other twin bed, her bare feettucked beneath her. "Do you know what empathic means?"

"No. Well, sort of. It has something to do with feelings."

"That's close. I'm... empathic. I can feel other people'sfeelings."

"You're kidding." Totally distracted, he sat up straight andstared at her.

"No. Sometimes I wish I was. It's not an easy gift to have. Myfather has it, too."

Carey was intrigued. He thought he even believed her. "How does itwork?"

"It's different for different people. A lot seems to depend onphysical and emotional closeness."

"For instance..."

"For instance, if I'm in the same room with my mother, and I try,I can feel most everything she does. If she's feeling something verystrongly, I can sense it from farther away... maybe the next room.With my brothers or my friends Cassie and Nathaniel, I'm lesssensitive, but I can pick up most emotions if I'm close to them. Withpeople I don't know, I only get very strong feelings and I usuallyhave to be touching them, or at least right next to them."

"You weren't right next to me," Carey said quietly. "You were inthe next room."

"I was two rooms over," Vicky corrected him, sounding troubled."You forgot the bathroom."

"How could you feel me?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe it's because we're cousins," Carey suggested. There wassomething disturbing about the idea of someone else feeling what hefelt.

"Not real cousins," she reminded him quietly, not meeting hiseyes. "But I can feel Uncle Devin pretty well. Maybe it's becauseyou're his son."

"Maybe." He stared out the window, working up the courage to ask aquestion. "Vicky, when am I going to meet your father?"

She looked at him sharply. "I don't know."

"Why not? Why is everyone so secretive?"

She sighed deeply. "It's partly because we don't know if you'regoing to stay or go back to Illinois. And partly because we didn'twant to..." she waved her hands, groping for words. "...hit you withtoo much at once, I guess."

"I don't understand. Why would meeting your father be toomuch?"

She sighed again. "My mother would kill me if she knew I wassaying this," she said at last. "But I can feel you, Carey, and Iknow you can be trusted. She can't and it's harder for her. She'storn between keeping my father safe and giving him the life she wantshim to have."

"I don't understand," Carey said again, bewildered.

"My father is different. You've never seen anyone like him.Ever."

It seemed a rather dogmatic statement and Carey challenged it."How do you know? My life hasn't been all that sheltered."

"Because there isn't anyone else in the world like Daddy. He'sunique."

"Everybody's unique, Vicky. Even identical twins."

"I don't mean unique as in individual. I mean sole. Single. One ofa kind."

Carey still didn't understand, but he sensed that she wasn'tprepared to go into any further detail. "Will you stay and talk tome?" he asked after a moment. "I don't think I'm ready to go to sleepand I don't want to be alone."

"Sure," she agreed readily, her voice gentle. "What do you want totalk about?"

Carey didn't know. He didn't want to talk so much as he didn'twant to be alone, so he waved his hands expansively. "Youchoose."

"Okay." She shifted positions, stretching out on her stomach andpropping her chin on her fist. "Tell me some more about what it'slike to live on a farm."

He started to, and for a time he was transported back to Illinois.Warm memories came first, and Vicky listened as he related smallincidents that demonstrated some of the differences between city andcountry life.

Slowly, inexorably, his thoughts were drawn toward more recentevents. He had given Catherine only the spare details of his mother'sdeath, unwilling to relive any of it, but now he found himselfreciting an emotionless account of that cold, gray Monday less thantwo weeks ago. Vicky listened quietly until he reached the part aboutrunning away from the hospital.

"Why? If he's your uncle..."

"Don't call him that!" he burst out. "He's not my uncle! He's notany part of me! I hate him, and I hate having his name!" Suddenly,helplessly, he began to sob.

He felt her tentative touch on his arm, but it was quicklywithdrawn. "I can't," she said, distressed. "Daddy..."

A moment later a strong arm circled Carey's shoulders, pulling himagainst a wide chest, and a deep, masculine voice offered gentlewords of comfort. Surrounded by so much love and compassion, Careyfinally surrendered himself to his all-encompassing grief.Much later,he became aware of Catherine's voice. Through eyes blurred by tears,he saw Evan and Jacob hovering anxiously in the doorway. Catherinestood nearby, her arms around Vicky, who was sobbing quietly. Careyhimself was still in the hard, comforting embrace of...

With a deep, shuddering breath, he pulled away and looked up intoa face that was, as Vicky had promised, unique.

It was a week later, and Carey looked out at the wispy tendrils ofclouds that reached out to touch the airplane's silvery skin. Theground, far below, was barely visible through the patches of white asthe plane winged its way west, toward Illinois.

Someone sat down in the seat beside him and he looked up, smiling.

"Scared?" Catherine asked.

He shrugged. "I've never flown before, but I know it's safe."

She nudged him impatiently. "That's not what I mean. You'respending too much time with Evan."

He ducked his head and grinned. "Yeah, I'm a little nervous. Going back home, knowing my mother won't be there... seeing hergrave... it's painful."

"You know, you can still change your mind. No one is forcing youto do this."

"I know. And I know the Gregorys would take me, so I wouldn't haveto live with Aunt Emily and... him. But I like New York." He lookedat her solemnly. "I feel as if I'm part of your family, and I likethat feeling."

She squeezed his hand. "We're glad to have you, Carey. You are apart of our family." She gave him a sideways glance. "You'recertainly good for Evan."

"Evan's okay," Carey said, brushing aside the compliment. Hegrinned in sudden excitement. "He must have told me fourteen times tobe sure and pack my ball glove."

"You pack whatever you like. We'll have it all shipped home foryou."

"And the rest goes in the estate sale," Carey added, a littlesadly.

"The house and the land will still belong to you. When you'reeighteen, you can decide what to do with them. Meanwhile, your...Henry Schrock is willing to lease the land for a fair price."

Carey nodded. Facing Henry Schrock was something else he had todo, and it helped, in an unexplainable way, to know that he no longerused the man's name. It had been Vicky's suggestion that he changehis name, and once she heard the reasons behind it, Catherineconcurred. "It isn't difficult to do it officially," she said. "I'llhelp you. Meanwhile, it's legal to use any name you like as long asyou don't plan on breaking any laws or committing fraud."

Smiling, Carey touched the pocket where his plane ticket rested.It was in his new name... Carey Wells.

THE END