The World More Full of Weeping by Robert J. Wiersema Read Free Book Online Page A

to hide my light under a
bushel to you?” He shook his head. “No, I’d have taken the
credit if there was any to be taken.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Jeff asked, pulling the paper
toward himself again and taking another look.
    â€œI mean that nobody rescued you, Jeff.” He drained his
glass, lowering his eyelids as he swallowed. “We spent a
full day and night out back there. We must have covered
every inch of your father’s woods. And mine. And old Tom’s.
Crews even started up the hill, thinking you might have
decided to try your hand at mountain climbing.”
    He stopped to pour himself another couple of fingers of
rye, and topped up Jeff’s drink.
    â€œThen just before sunset the second day, you walked out
of the woods.”
    â€œI just . . . ?”
    John nodded. “All of your own accord, and under your
own steam. You were cold and hungry.” The old man smiled.
“You looked like a boy who had been out in the woods for a
night and a day.”
    Jeff smiled ruefully, staring down at his glass. He felt
something that seemed like it might be a memory niggling
at the edges of his mind, but nothing came into focus.
    â€œAnd you were crying.”
    The words hung in the air as if placed there.
    Jeff looked across the table at the old man.
    â€œCrying?”
    He nodded. “Sobbing. Everyone thought it was because
you had been so scared, that you were so relieved at being
home. Everybody comforted you, told you it was going to
be all right.”
    â€œBut?”
    John pushed himself away from the table, carried his
empty glass to the sink and gave it a rinse. He leaned
against the counter, looking to the window over the
sink, the window that during the day offered a view of
the woods. He spoke to the reflection of Jeff in the night
dark glass.
    â€œAdults don’t always listen to children,” he said, quietly.
“We think we know exactly who they are, exactly what
they need, exactly what they’re going to say.”
    Jeff stiffened in the chair.
    â€œWe think we know what they’re feeling, and we just
proceed along with our assumptions. If we ever took the
time to actually listen . . .”
    â€œI get it,” Jeff said, not angrily. “I should have paid more
attention to Brian. I should have really listened to what he
was trying to tell me about not moving to Vancouver.”
    John turned away from the glass to face him directly.
“That sounds about right, but I don’t have any idea what
you’re talking about.”
    â€œThen what . . .”
    â€œThey should have listened to you better, that day you
came out of the woods. Everyone was so busy bringing
you blankets and food and telling you that everything was
going to be all right, no one actually heard what you were
crying about. No one listened to what you were saying.”
    â€œNobody except you,” Jeff said, his voice a hoarse
whisper.
    John nodded slowly. “You kept saying, ‘She’s gone. She’s
gone and I’m never going to see her again. Carly’s gone.’”

    â€œYou’re late,” were his father’s first words as the screen door
clattered shut behind Brian.
    â€œSorry, Dad,” he called up the stairs as he kicked off his
shoes and hung up his jacket and slicker.
    He couldn’t stop smiling.
    The apology , he thought, would be enough. His dad didn’t
usually get mad. And even less now, with his mom gone and
living in Vancouver. Since she left, Brian had noticed that
his father seemed to be working very hard at not getting
mad, at not raising his voice, at not doing anything to upset
Brian.
    The apology would probably be enough.
    It wasn’t.
    He came around the corner at the top of the stairs,
holding a spatula in his hand. “Where were you?” he
demanded.
    Brian couldn’t tell if he was really angry or just worried,
but looking up at him from the bottom of the stairs, he