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Show Woodworth/77 she has never dared look. The only sign that Jake ever left childhood are the books: paperbacks with pages loose and dogeared, on Zen, on macrobiotics, books marked "philosophy" in tiny letters on the binding. Or "religion". On top of the book case, a silver sailing trophy has turned brown with tarnish and a model sailboat sails endlessly towards the windows. On the way home, after the funeral, they all talked about going to Nantucket, and whether to take two cars over on the ferry, or leave one on the mainland, and which car they should use to tow the boat, the new ensign they had bought you so you could race in a different class. That was the first time I remember seeing Mom drunk. In fact, I didn't even really realize what was wrong with her at first. We stopped to have lunch on the way home, and I guess she was drinking then. But I just couldn't understand them wanting to stop and eat like that, as if nothing had happened, when we had just been sitting in the school chapel, and you had been lying in that box up there, still in the same room with us, but not really there. Your body being there, but you not being in the chapel, or on the campus, or anywhere else around. The minister talking about you turning into ashes. Talking about how the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But Jake, the Lord didn't take away. You did. And the minister never said why. You never said why. He never said it was drugs, Jake. Being in the chapel agin, it was eerie, and I kept remembering. I kept my promise, Jake- I never told them about the drugs. I still haven't. I never told them, and now there is a pew with a plack on it that says, "In Memory of Jake Browning, 1951-1968." Underneath, it says |
