C h a p t e r Si x t e e n
My Mother's Handkerchief
The next evening, I read to Charlie, and pointed at the little words that actually seemed to fly off the page for me. Twice, I shut the book and gave up. My eyes were tired and my mind was preoccupied. He held a bowl of strawberries on his lap, and they were quite a red mess all over his face. I had found him in a meadow eating strawberries and so I had gone home, fetched a bowl, and told him that if he wanted I would read a little to him. My, did that boy love strawberries.
“Open ‘em,” he drawled, and took the book off my lap. “Look at that,” he laughed and pointed to a painting of a white rabbit, dressed in clothes and a pocket watch. He ate another strawberry. His eyes always had a look of drowsiness about them, almost tired, but I knew he wasn’t.
“That’s funny, isn’t it,” I said absentmindedly.
“Yeah,” he agreed, his breathing a little heavier than usual. “You want any more berries?”
“No, that’s alright.”
“No,” he said, stretching out the word. “You want some,” and he grabbed a handful. “Don’t you? Don’t you?”
“I don’t want any more, Charlie.”
“Yes, you do,” he said in a sing-song voice and held them up to my face.
“Charlie!” I pushed his hands away. Then I sighed, knowing he had me at last. “Alright, alright. I do want some.”
Charlie laughed at me for ages and then dumped the bowl onto my lap. I didn’t resist; I just ate obediently.
We sat under a tree and read for a short while longer, until I finally released him and sat there alone.
It was a quiet evening and everyone was off doing something on their own. Yesterday had been a trying day, and I suppose I’m the kind of person who takes awhile to recover from such excitement.
I left my spot under the tree and went out by the beach. There I found a rock and I sat in the quietness, the only sound I heard being the water swishing lightly.
It was hard taking on each long, hot, day and never fully knowing if Father was coming. And I realized that my mother’s birthday had passed three days ago, and I had not even remembered.
I was so busy running and playing, that I did not stop to spare a single thought about her. That made me angry, angry at myself for being thoughtless. I always felt guilt easier than my siblings did, and I never quite knew why. I felt a terrible sinking feeling inside of me. When I glanced around to make sure no one was listening or watching, I laid my head in my hand and blew out a long, tired exhale. And then my eyes felt glossy and I wiped them with a sunburned hand that just made it worse.
I didn’t bother to wipe away any more tears. My handkerchief had blown away into the wind somewhere and my hands and eyes burned. I cried, just a little. I was weary of pretending to be like my mother, because I knew I could never be. No, not ever. My mother was a special person, unlike anyone else in the world.
I heard a crunch of leaves. I twisted on the rock on which I sat, and at first didn’t see anything in the trees behind me. But then two crystal blue eyes peered back at me and my shoulders relaxed. “You don’t have to hide, Charlie. I could see your eyes anywhere.”
The boy grinned and walked over to me. “You’re crying.”
“Just a little.”
He smiled kindly and sat down next to me, dropping his head on his knuckles, his elbows propped up on his knees. His hair was wet.
“Have you swam again today?”
“Always do.” He picked at his finger repetitively.
“Don’t, you’ll make it bleed.” I reached my hand over his and he made a stubborn grunting sound and turned away.
“It’s fine,” he protested, lingering on the word in a slow sort of way.
I shrugged. “I was just trying to help. My mother always told me never to pick at hurt fingers.”
“But your mama’s dead, ain’t she?” he chortled. “Mine’s dead, too. Dead and gone.” He laughed and my face distorted with an irritation of which I had never felt, especially never towards Charlie.
“Dead and gone, dead and gone,” he sang, and wagged his head with each word.
I turned away my face and together we sat, back to back, him singing under his breath and me looking straight ahead solemnly. “Do you mean to make people cry, Charlie?” I asked, in a still, serious tone.
“No,” he answered innocently. “I never made no one cry. Except for Pa, maybe. When he left ‘cause I was too stupid to love.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “You know that isn’t true. People don’t love other people based on how sharp they are.”
“Sharp?”
“Yes. Like a pencil.”
He chuckled and then he heard me sniffle and turned around, looking over my shoulder. “And you. I made you cry, didn’t I?”
“When you talked about your mother, it made me cry. Because then I thought of my own mother.”
“Oh,” he adjusted himself next to me. “Hey,” he gasped and pulled out a white cloth. “Look at this,” and he handed it to me.
“My handkerchief. Where did you find it?”
“Somewhere.”
My lips turned in a small smile and I held it in my hands and looked at it, wistfully. “It was my mother’s.”
And then Charlie took it away from me and wiped a tear away from my face, gently. “See, I can do it too,” he said.
I laughed softly. “Thank you very much, Charlie dear.”
He smiled and then set the handkerchief down beside me. “That’s what you did to me, ‘member?”
“Yes, I remember. I wiped away your tears because you were crying about…about the caterpillar. You were very heartbroken.”
He looked away and sighed. “Yes. ‘Cause I killed her, didn’t I?”
“She was just a little thing. But little things are no less important than big creatures, like deer or even rabbits.”
“You think God’s mad at me?”
“No, I don’t,” and I looked him in the eyes. “Thank you for being such a kind, dear friend to me.”
After another moment, Charlie walked away.
You see, Charlie was more than just a boy who loved to laugh and play. He understood sadness, perhaps more than others. He felt sadness more, too. But he always brightened up and he always wore a caring, tender smile that brought joy to everyone he met.
Those special sorts of moments only lasted so long, but were cherished forever and ever.
I put the handkerchief into my pocket and left.
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