The Lamb and the Gray Battle

September 30, 2022

Dylan was still throwing a tantrum when Brantley got home that evening.

"She's leaving. Just like that, she's going away."

Dylan slammed his bedroom door. Brantley had no choice but to go to his mother for an explanation. Jo moved the laundry from the washer to the dryer. She didn't pause when Brantley demanded answers.

"Evie's leaving."

"Where's she going?"

"I don't know, Brantley." She pushed a sweaty lock behind her ear.

"Why?"

"I don't know, Brantley."

Brantley thought of himself as a level-headed, rational person, but he ran over to Evie's house. It was like the scene in The Graduate, banging on the window, trying to stop the woman he loves from marrying someone else. Evie let him in, but the sunshine was hidden behind rain clouds.

Brantley clasped the air, tried to explain everything going on in his head.

"You can't go."

Evie swayed down the hall. Cassie, the big black dog, was happy to see Brantley and he hastily scrubbed her ears before chasing after Evie, who had disappeared into her grandmother's room. Several garbage bags were stacked against the wall.

"What are you doing?"

"Gran believed in using things until they wore out," Evie said, her eyes red. She rubbed the snot from her nose. "I can't donate any of this. Best to throw it out. Hal is going to be livid when he sees all this by the curb," she said, calling the garbageman by name. "I'll make him a batch of snickerdoodles to make up for it."

Brantley was taller than Evie, but her wispy hair fluttered and outstripped him. No words formed, but this was liquid in a vase and he could put his hands on it, try to make it logical. Brantley swallowed. He hadn't been this terrified for a long time.

"I know what you're going through." He stopped, took another breath. "My dad committed suicide."

Evie turned, the first bit of expression on her face.

"I've only told one person this story and she dumped me before I could finish."

Evie abandoned the threadbare dresses and skirts, drew Brantley to the kitchen, sat him at the table. She started a pot of tea. Brantley gnawed his lips. He never drank tea. Ever. What he really wanted was something to hold, a towel to wring.

He whispered, "My father wrote Her Story."

Evie's eyes popped. Brantley didn't think those blue orbs could get much bigger, but there they were, a pair of blue Halloween pumpkins with eyelashes.

"It's not that big of a deal," he said. "Dad used a pseudonym. We never got any money from it. And the book disappeared from the shelves as soon as it was released."

The editor and publisher both went to jail and their little publishing company folded. Any money they got from selling the rights to publishing companies in other countries was fined away. His mother wouldn't talk about it and screamed at him any time he asked.

"The story is true," Brantley said. "That I know. My father was in love with her. He didn't cheat on Mom. He didn't know Mom back then. I wasn't even, you know, he wasn't even thinking about kids back then."

Silence spread out between them, but Evie sensed the weight of the air. She shifted to the kitchen, busied herself with the chamomile and put it in front of Brantley, a heaping spoonful of sugar stirred in.