Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

way of peering at me, making his eyes small and leaning so that his shoulders turned in, making him look like a bird.
    "I was wondering, if you weren't too busy that is, if you would want to look at my poems."
    He was carrying a notebook under his arm. "Sure," I said. "I'd love to. Come on in."
    He hesitated a moment, looked back and then entered.
    "Sit down," I said, patting the spot beside me.
    "On the floor?"
    "Sure, why not? It's very comfortable down here. Trisha and I always sit on the floor when we do our homework."
    It took Arthur a few moments to fold those long legs of his comfortably, but he did it and then handed me his notebook. It was a thick one.
    "You have a lot of poems," I said, impressed.
    "I've been writing them a long time," he said dryly.
    "Who else has seen them?" I asked, opening the cover.
    "Not too many people," he said, "that I wanted to see them. Of course, there are always people who will poke their noses into someone else's business," he added and I guessed he was referring to Trisha who had told me she had once snuck a look at his poetry when he left the notebook on a table in the sitting room.
    I turned the page and read. Trisha had been right. All of his poems were about dismal subjects: animals dying or being deserted, stars that burned out and became black spots invisible in the night sky and someone dying from some horrible disease. I thought they must be good, even so, because they made me feel sad and afraid and reminded me of my own bad times.
    "These poems are very good, Arthur," I told him. He turned his head and allowed his eyes to meet mine. They looked like dark pools in the forest, deep and so still they seemed frozen. Looking into Arthur's eyes was like looking through a keyhole of an otherwise locked door. I saw the sadness and the loneliness inside and I felt the emptiness. "I know they're good because they make me sad and make me remember when I felt like this in the past.
    "But if you can write so well, why don't you write poems that will make people feel happy?"
    "I write what I feel," he said, "and what I see."
    I nodded, understanding. When I read the poem about the beautiful dove that broke its wings and had to stay on a leafless branch until its heart gave out, I thought about Momma Longchamp growing weaker and weaker after Fern's birth until she was like a beautiful bird whose wings had been clipped. I recalled the day her heart gave out, and in remembering I felt anew my need for a mother or daddy to hold me close and stroke my hair when I was sick or scared.
    Tears began to stream down my cheeks.
    "You're crying," Arthur said. "No one has ever read my poems and cried."
    "I'm sorry, Arthur," I said. "It's not because your poems are bad." I handed the notebook back to him. "It's just hard for me to read these things and not think about my own painful times."
    He looked astonished for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, his thin lips pressed together with understanding and his protruding Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
    "You don't like your family, do you?" he asked and before I could reply he added, "I know about the letter of lies your grandmother wrote to Agnes."
    "You followed us that night and saw us sneak into her room to read it, didn't you?" I accused him sharply.
    "Yes. I know you saw me that night." He looked down at his long-fingered hands folded in his lap and then looked up. "I listened through the door and heard how angry you and Trisha were after reading it. Why does your grandmother dislike you so?"
    "It's a long story, Arthur."
    "Are you angry about my following and spying on you?" he asked, holding his breath.
    "No. But I don't like to be spied on. It makes me feel dirty all over and gives me the creeps."
    He nodded, and we were both silent and tense for a long moment.
    "I don't like being with my parents," he confessed. "I hate going home and I can't stand going on holiday with them."
    "That's terrible, Arthur, a terrible thing to say about your mother and father. Why do you say it?"
    "They're always disappointed in me. They want me to be a professional musician. They're determined that that's what I will be. I practice and practice, but I know I'm mediocre. My teachers know it too. The only reason they tolerate me is because of who my parents are."
    "Why don't you just tell them how you feel about it?" I asked.
    "I have, dozens of times, but they refuse to listen. All they say is keep practicing; it takes practice. But it takes more than