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Show dad maybe needed to call the company again, she said she would make sure he did. But when we moved back to Utah that August, the crack was still there. That was the year we fought about everything. We were only boys, dad said, and we were only doing what brothers naturally did. But mom said she couldn't understand it. She couldn't understand how one of us managed to care about a toy only when the other began to play with it. She couldn't understand why we couldn't keep our hands to ourselves, why we couldn't go five minutes without hitting each other, why we felt this need to argue about the most meaningless things. High up in the pantry, on a shelf we couldn't reach even with a footstool, she kept of box of toys we had fought over. She promised to return those toys when we calmed down and agreed to play nicely. But we knew that if a toy went into that box we weren't likely to get it back anytime soon. That was the year I turned eight and David turned six. If we saw someone we hadn't seen in a while, an aunt or uncle or an old family friend, that person would look at us for a few second and say to mom and dad that they couldn't believe how big we were getting. They never said it to us directly, but they always said it. Sometimes, when we were introduced to people for the first time, they would grab hold of our biceps and pretend to be surprised by our enormous strength. When they turned their attention to Amy, however, they said how beautiful she was, just like a normal girl. Mom and dad always smiled at that, but we knew it bothered them. That was the year our house was filled with safety latches. Every cupboard and every door was locked. Dad said the latches were there to protect Amy from herself. She had |