After by Francis Chalifour Read Free Book Online

the key had gotten lost. I went upstairs to my bedroom without saying anything.

    When spring comes to our street and the snow recedes, the crop of mittens and hats that have been frozen in drifts all winter begin to surface like exotic flowers. I started to notice that there were whole hours when the grief ebbed and left patches of normal life behind it. It was like finding a lost mitten when you’ve almost forgotten about it. That’s when I would think about what we’d be having for supper or what was playing at the movies or whether I should do my Spanish homework before my science assignment. Slowly, slowly I began to prefer being with my friends to being alone. Their jokes were still pretty lame, but I knew they were trying their best for me, and that counted for a lot.

    The nights remained gruesome long after the days became easier. Hard as it was to accept that my father was dead, it was a piece of cake compared to accepting that he’d committed suicide. Night after long night I would lie in my bed thinking of him hanging from a crossbeam in the attic, surrounded by boxes of our baby clothes and an old sewing machine and gold Christmas balls. It would be easier to believe that he was killed by a stranger than to admit he’d killed himself, because then there would be somebody for me to hate. I couldn’t hate my father.

    A man from the insurance company came to talk to Maman.
    “Finish giving Luc his lunch,” she called from the front door. I cut Luc’s toast into soldiers, poured tomato soup into his Kermit bowl, and put on coffee for Maman and the insurance guy.
    When I carried two mugs into the dining room for them, they were sitting across from each other with papers spread all over the table. The agent’s briefcase lay open between them. I could see pens and a calculator and a calendar neatly arranged in it. Neither of them looked at me.
    Without warning Maman stood up, stuffed the papers into the briefcase and threw the whole thing at the man with impressive force. He ducked, and the case crashed to the floor.
    Maman stomped out of the room and up the stairs. I could hear her ranting as she paced up and down the hall above us.
    The agent straightened his jacket and picked up the briefcase.
    “You won’t be able to collect on your father’s life insurance,” he explained, red-faced. “I’m afraid it was not a
natural
death.”

    I snapped the leash on Sputnik and dug Luc’s jacket out of the closet. “Come on, kiddo. We’re going to the park.”
    “Why?”
    “I think Maman might want to be alone.” I could hear a variety of furious slammings and stompings above us.
    It was a bright April day. Luc climbed up on the swing, and I pushed him. I didn’t know how much he’d taken in of the scene Maman had created, but just in case, I wanted him to forget about it. I wanted him to soar high in the sky. In French we say as high as a grown-up’s hat. He shrieked with laughter.
    We walked Sputnik to the off-leash part of the park and found an empty bench. Sputnik did a play bow to a passing collie that looked like it was carrying a tree in its mouth. The two of them took off, playing tug-the-branch.
    “You know what, Francis?” Luc sounded as if he had worked out a puzzle. “Papa is dead.”
    “Yes, that’s true.”
    “And that’s why Maman cries a lot.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    He trained his blue, trusting eyes on me. I hated when he looked at me like that. “Francis, teach me how to play the guitar.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I don’t want you to be alone.” I didn’t have to wonder whether or not Luc had figured out the insurance stuff. Nothing much got by him.
    My little brother. My little Luc. It hit me how much life is like poker. Some people draw all the good cards, and others only dream that they’ll get a decent hand some day. Luc’s cards were pretty dire for a kid so young.
    If I were God, if He exists, I would make a rule that people get to send the person they’ve lost