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The nurse glared at him. Then she marched to the closet, wrenched open the door and took out the crutches the physical therapist had brought in two days ago.
“If you fall and break your fool neck, John Wilde, don’t look to me to take care of you. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
She sounded stern, looked stern, but Johnny could see compassion in her eyes.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly.
Her lips curved in a smile.
“Give it a little time and you’ll realize this was an accident.”
“Sure,” Johnny said, and they both knew that he was lying.
* * * *
The parking lot of the Wilde’s Crossing Community Church was packed with cars and trucks.
TJ started to turn his wheezing black Chevy pickup into the lot, but Johnny stopped him.
“Let me out at the front door.”
“Wilde. You’re not gonna make it up those steps.”
Johnny opened his door.
“Watch me.”
TJ got out and came around to the passenger side of the truck, but Johnny had already hauled himself out.
“I’m fine,” he said.
TJ went to the bed of the pickup for the crutches.
“Thanks.”
“OK. Let me park and I’ll come back and help you get up those—”
“Forget it.”
“Man, are you nuts? No way can you—”
Wrong. Johnny was already halfway up the four wide steps that led to the double doors of the church.
By the time he reached the top step, he was exhausted.
He paused. Drew a deep breath. Then he opened the right hand door. Music reached out to him. The choir, singing “Amazing Grace.”
The service had already started.
He stepped through the door.
He tried his best to make no noise, but that was difficult when you were shuffling forward on crutches, especially when the choir had just reached the end of the hymn and the tap-drag-tap of the crutches filled the resounding silence.
“Friends,” the minister said solemnly, “we gather here today to—”
Someone gasped. Heads turned, and a murmur swept through the church. Johnny felt every eye lock on him.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, Amos Wilde, seated in a front pew, shot to his feet.
“Get out.”
Johnny stood still.
“GET OUT!” Amos’s voice roared through the high-ceilinged room. “Did you hear me, boy? I said—”
“John.” The minister gestured to him. “Please. Come forward and take a seat.”
Amos swung toward the minister. “This boy is not welcome here!”
“This is a house of God, Mr. Wilde. Everyone is welcome here.”
Heads swiveled from Johnny to Amos to the minister. Johnny could almost feel the congregation holding its breath.
His father’s face turned purple. Then Amos sank into his seat, his back rigid. Johnny’s legs were trembling; he was sweating even harder. Dammit, he was going to humiliate himself. The crutches were going to slide out from his armpits. He was going to sink to the floor. He was going to make the funeral about him and his old man when it was about Alden.
“John.”
The voice was low and familiar.
“John. Here.”
He looked around and saw Miss Cleary, his English teacher. She was a rotund, sweet-faced woman in her sixties and Johnny knew he’d probably made her life unpleasant by goofing around in class those times he’d bothered to show up.
Now, she was patting the empty space beside her.
Johnny hesitated, but only for a second. Then he limped to the pew, took down his crutches and slipped onto the bench.
He wanted to thank her, but he didn’t trust his voice.
She smiled and patted his knee, and a hot wash of shame flooded through him as he thought of how he’d tormented her.
“It’s OK,” she whispered, as if she knew what he was thinking.
Then she turned her attention to the pulpit.
“Dear friends,” the minster said, “we are gathered her to offer each other comfort at this difficult time. We have lost a fine young man. Alden James Wilde, the beloved son of Amos Jefferson Wilde and the beloved brother of John Hamilton Wilde…”
A sob burst from someone’s throat.
It took Johnny a minute to realize that the sobs were his.
* * * *
The cemetery was behind the church.
By the time Johnny had composed himself, the building was empty, but Miss Cleary was still at his side.
“Let’s go,” she said, “or we won’t hear the entire ceremony.”
Johnny nodded and got to his feet.
The teacher clasped his arm as they made their way out to the cemetery. He wasn’t sure if she was guiding him or he was guiding her. Either way, he stepped away from her when they reached the blue plastic canopy that shielded the Wilde family plot from the elements.
“I’m fine, thank you, ma’am.”
It was a lie of monumental proportions.
He wouldn’t be fine, not ever again, and he suspected she knew it, but he needed to be alone, to ready himself for the sight of his brother’s coffin being poised above the dark, cold grave that awaited it.
The day was overcast; the promise of rain was heavy in the air.
Amos stood alone under the canopy with the minister; the mourners who’d crowded the church all stood back as if they knew that was what Amos wanted.
Johnny stood alone, too, on the edge of the crowd. He could feel his heart pounding. He kept seeing Alden grinning at him in the locker room after the game—and then he’d hear him shouting a warning, hear the girls screaming…
The rain thundered down.
He felt wetness on his cheeks, not from the rain but from his tears.
He was weeping for the brother he loved. The brother whose death stained his hands, his heart, his mind.
He was the reason Alden was dead. His father knew it and, ultimately, so did he.
Lost in despair, he didn’t realize the ceremony had ended and the crowd had dispersed until he felt a light touch on his arm.
It was Miss Cleary.
“John,” she said gently, “it’s time to leave.”
Johnny shook his head.
“I’ll drive you home.”
Home. Where was that?
“John?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll be fine.”
She patted his arm again.
“Come on,” she said gently. “I’m parked at the
front of the lot and if you tell me the best way to get to El Sueno from—”
El Sueño.
“I’m not going to El Sueño.”
“But that’s your home.”
A muscle knotted in Johnny’s cheek.
“It isn’t. It never was. It’s my father’s kingdom, half a million acres of cattle and horses and oil, and the only good thing about it is that it was going to belong to Alden someday and now, sweet Jesus, and now…”
God, he was pathetic! Standing here in the rain, hanging onto a couple of sticks of wood because he’d fall down if he didn’t, crying like a baby in front of an old woman he’d made fun of a dozen times over…
“John Hamilton Wilde, you stop feeling sorry for yourself!”
“I’m not.”
“You most certainly are, and if you truly care for Alden’s memory, you’ll pull yourself together and be the strong, proud brother he loved.”
“I’m not strong. And if I was proud, it was for all the wrong reasons. If Alden ever loved me—”
“Loved you? He adored you! You were his hero. His champion. He wrote an essay about you just last week.”
Johnny stared at her. “He did?”
“The assignment was to write about a modern-day hero, someone who had changed your life. Alden wrote about his brother. About you. He wrote about how you stood up for him when others teased him, about how much he admired the courage you showed each time you stood up to your father. He wrote about how smart you are on the football field and off.”
“Do you mean it?”
“I’ll show you his essay once we get home.”
“I just told you, I don’t have a home.”
“Yes,” the old woman said firmly, “you do. You’re going to stay with me.”
“No. I mean, I couldn’t. My father will—he’ll hate anyone who—”
“John Hamilton Wilde! Do I look like a woman who gives a tinker’s damn about who your father hates?”
For the first time in endless days and even more endless nights, Johnny felt the start of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
“Exactly,” his English teacher said. “Now, let me hold onto your arm.”
“I don’t need—”
“I need, young man! The ground is soaked and uneven, and I’m not as strong as I once was.”
Miss Cleary put her hand on his arm. She was lying and they both knew it. She needed his help the way a mountain lion might need help from a house cat.
