I supposed everyone got like that sometimes, but it reminded me of a time when I was playing with my food at breakfast instead of eating it, and my grandma told me not to be wasteful of my time and especially to avoid what she called “dead time.” Those were the moments when you were in a sort of daze, not thinking or talking. She said seconds were like bubbles, and just like you couldn’t keep them from popping, you couldn’t keep time stored up in your pocket. There was no piggy bank for minutes. Time wasted was time lost forever: “Even blessed Jesus couldn’t resurrect it.”
“Amen to that,” My Faith had said. She knew all about Jesus and often quoted the Bible. She traveled thirty-five miles every Sunday to attend her church in Charlottesville and volunteered to cook church dinners regularly.
“Well,” Lieutenant Bronson finally said, “as of today, we still don’t have a missing-child report that would fit him. It’s really weird.”
Grandpa grunted. I had the feeling his private detective had at least told him that much.
Lieutenant Bronson produced a card and gave it to my grandpa. “If you learn anything that will help get the people who did this . . .”
Grandpa took it and shoved it quickly into his pocket.
“We’ll follow up on what we have and see what’s what,” Lieutenant Bronson added.
“You do that. In the meantime, I’ll look after him,” Grandpa told him, with such firmness in his voice that I couldn’t help but imagine steel doors slamming shut. There wasn’t even a hint of temporary when he used the word “meantime.” He seemed to know instinctively that whoever had done this to the little boy would avoid detection and especially avoid having to care for him. The poisoned boy was disowned, cast out to either die or disappear, and my grandfather was determined to make it impossible for him to suffer a moment more than he already had.
Lieutenant Bronson smiled at me and then hurried away.
“C’mon,” Grandpa said, taking my hand. We went to the elevator and rode up to th
e floor where the boy was being treated in a private room.
When we got there, I paused in the doorway, even though Grandpa marched right in. The boy didn’t look much different from the way he had that day Willie was brought to the hospital. He still looked withered and tiny, way too small for all the equipment that surrounded him. After a moment, I followed Grandpa in. The boy’s eyes were on us, and I thought he almost smiled at the sight of Grandpa.
“Hey, champ,” Grandpa said. “How you doin’?”
The boy didn’t answer. He looked from Grandpa to me and just stared at me. Grandpa noticed.
“This is my granddaughter, Clara Sue,” he told him. The boy seemed to show more interest in me. Grandpa urged me on with his eyes. I stepped closer.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s your name? What grade are you in?”
We waited, holding our breath, because his lips parted, and he looked like he might speak, but they closed again, and this time, he looked away, turning his head away. I looked at Grandpa. His eyes urged me to continue.
“I’m in the tenth grade,” I said. “Do you like school?”
We waited, but he didn’t turn back.
“How do they know he’s not deaf?” I asked.
“They know. Keep trying,” Grandpa said. “I just saw the neurologist arrive. I have to speak with him.”
He walked out, and I stood there. The boy was so thin. His wrists looked tiny, certainly tinier than Willie’s. His eyebrows were very fine, almost invisible. All of his features were small but perfect. I imagined every one of his nurses had a broken heart over him and couldn’t keep their hands off him. He looked as fragile as one of my mother’s special collectible dolls given to her as a child. Despite what he had gone through, his skin looked as smooth as glass. How could his mother or father not want to cherish him? How could anyone want to kill someone so dainty and precious?
Standing here beside him, I was losing my anger. I didn’t expect that, and I didn’t like it. I kept telling myself that I should be home thinking about Willie, writing another letter to him, and not standing here caring about this . . . strange bird. My rage once again began to rise to the surface.
“Someone brought you here the same time my brother, Willie, was brought here in an ambulance,” I began. “A drunk driver hit him on his bike, even though he was riding on the sidewalk.”
The word “bike” seemed to attract his attention. He looked at me, waiting to hear more.
“He died,” I said. “He really died in the ambulance, and they couldn’t do anything wonderful for him here.”
The boy didn’t show any surprise or sympathy. He just stared blankly.
“He was only nine. He was so excited about riding his bike outside our property,” I continued, but still, the boy showed no reaction. “Did you hear what I said? My little brother is dead, killed, and the man who did it was drunk.”
He barely blinked.
“Do you know why you’re here, at least? Do you know you were poisoned? Did you eat something you shouldn’t? You almost died, too, but the hospital saved you, and my grandfather is helping you.”