Some Quiet Place

let go, Joshua tries to discreetly wipe it dry on his pants.
    “So … ” He grins at me some more, shyness overtaking him now. “In a hurry to get somewhere?”
    “No,” I answer. “Just going home.” The office is only a few yards down the hall. I start toward it.
    Joshua walks beside me without an invitation. He wants to know me, and he’s not about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. At my words he chews his lip. “Oh.” He hides behind his hair as he thinks. “I’m going home too. Lots of chores,” he adds lamely.
    “Yes.” I halt outside the door marked OFFICE . A memory nudges at me, and for some reason I voice it. “I remember my mom taking me to your house once when we were little. She was bringing your father casserole.”
    He’s nodding, features tight and shadowed. His current emotions swiftly dissipate and evolve into something darker. Sorrow and Anger. They hound him like merciless spirits and I’m careful to keep my gaze away. “Yeah,” he says with a tightness in his voice. “I remember that, too. A lot of people brought casseroles after Mom died.”
    “I’m sorry for your loss.” I meet his gaze and picture Courage as I make the words sincere. “Even though you know it’s not her fault, you must struggle not to be angry with her sometimes, for leaving.”
    At this Joshua studies my bruises, and he isn’t trying to be subtle. He’s frowning fiercely, like maybe he’s thinking about saying something. But in the end all he says is, “You talk like you’ve lost someone before.”
    “I haven’t,” I reply, deliberately curt. I sense the questions hovering on his tongue; I can’t encourage this. Joshua is the kind of person to take action if he thinks he hears a cry for help. But the statement— you talk like you’ve lost someone —brings back images of the girl in the woods, screaming up at the sky . The boy in her arms.That house by the ocean, the woman’s smile.
    You killed me .
    Knowing now is not the time to think about any of it, I put my hand on the doorknob as a hint that I’m finished with the conversation.
    “Wait,” Joshua says quickly. I wait. He hesitates once more, looking down at his shoes. Then he takes a deep breath and lifts his head. “Can I … call you sometime?”
    It’s taken him years to ask me, and here it is. Again, the words whisper through my mind: someone believes you will need that boy in the end. What end, I wonder once more.
    Joshua is still holding that single breath, preparing himself for my rejection. I force a smile at him, pretending interest. “That sounds great.” I rattle off my number. Before he has a chance to stumble over a response, I duck into the office, already thinking about my phone call to Maggie.

SIX
    Charles finally tells Dad about college—I was right in thinking he was having problems. He dropped out, in fact. I’m up in my room, listening to Tim shout at my brother about responsibility, money, growing up. It doesn’t escape me that Tim is much more restrained with Charles than he is with me or Mom.
    Afterwards, when Tim has stormed out of the house, leaving a menacing stillness in his place, Charles climbs the stairs. He comes into my room without knocking and flops face-down on my bed beside me. The bedsprings squeal from the added weight. Charles groans, but even after all of this, the only Emotion near him is Relief. Charles has had an easy life. Relief is stiff, younger-looking. He takes his purpose seriously; he doesn’t acknowledge me.
    “What are you going to do now?” I ask my brother, staring up at the ceiling. The smooth expanse of white makes me think of the dream-girl’s skin in the moonlight.
    Charles doesn’t seem to notice my distraction. He also doesn’t answer my question. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he has no idea. I know him. All he has is his job at Fowler’s Grocery, and yet he isn’t afraid of the empty prospects his future holds. Such is my brother’s nature.
    “You should decorate this room,” he murmurs after a time. “It’s depressing in here.”
    “I didn’t know white was depressing,” I say.
    He rolls over to face me, serious for once. He can’t ignore the bruises on my face anymore. “Has it been hard for you, while I was gone?” Relief vanishes at the question.
    Mulling over the best response, I ponder the white walls, imagining them covered in posters or paint. It’s strange—they’ve been white for so long, empty,