Chapter 67: For You

Chapter 67: For You

Amy pushed the door open, her backpack strap sliding off her shoulder. She didn't catch it. She saw a box of crayons on the mantelpiece—a red box, twenty-four colors, with the red one on top. She walked over and stood in front of the mantelpiece, looking at it for a while without touching it, then turned and ran to the kitchen.

"Mom, there's a new box of crayons on the mantelpiece."

Irene stood at the stove, spatula in hand. "Yes."

"Who put it there?"

"Kyle."

She ran back and stood in front of Kyle. "Kyle, where did the crayons come from?"

"Someone gave them."

"Who?"

"Don't know them."

She looked at him for a moment, then turned and walked to the mantelpiece, took down the crayon box and opened it, pulled out the red one and looked at it—the crayon was new, pointy, never used. She put the red one back, pulled out the yellow one and looked at it, put it back, closed the lid, and held the crayon box in her arms.

"Kyle, can I use them?"

"Yes."

She made a sound of acknowledgment, put the crayon box back on the mantelpiece, next to the keys and birth certificate. She ran over and grabbed Kyle's hand.

"Kyle, did anyone come today?"

"No."

She nodded, let go of his hand, and climbed onto the chair to sit. Irene brought out the food—potatoes, carrots, beef. Amy picked up her utensils and put a piece of beef in Kyle's bowl.

"Kyle, you eat."

He picked it up and put it in his mouth. Hot.

"How is it?"

"Not salty."

She smiled and ate her own food. After one bite, she stopped.

"Kyle, why did that person give me crayons?"

"Don't know."

She thought for a moment. "Will he give me other things?"

"Don't know."

She nodded and continued eating. After finishing the rice in her bowl, she jumped down from the chair, ran to the mantelpiece and took down the crayon box, holding it in her arms, ran to the stairs. "I'm going up to draw."

Irene collected the bowls and put them in the sink. The faucet ran. Dorothy continued knitting. Kyle stood up, walked to the door and pushed it open, stood on the steps. The street corner was empty. The streetlight was on, shining on the empty asphalt road. He turned and went inside, left the door open, walked back and sat down, reached into his pocket and felt the key—hard, cold. He pulled his hand out.

His phone lit up. A message from Seer. "He's asking if you got the crayons."

Kyle typed. "Got them."

"He says—does she like them?"

Kyle looked at the screen. "Don't know. She didn't say."

Seer was silent for a moment. "He says—okay."

Kyle put down his phone. Irene came out of the kitchen, dried her hands, and sat across from him.

"Kyle, what did he ask?"

"Asked if Amy likes them."

"What did you say?"

"Don't know. She didn't say."

She nodded and said nothing. Kyle looked at the doorway—the door was open, the street corner empty.

When it got light, Kyle stood up and walked to the window, pulled back the curtain. The street corner was empty. He let go of the curtain and went upstairs. Amy was still sleeping. He stood at her bedroom door and looked for a while: she was sleeping on her side, one hand sticking out from under the covers resting on the pillow, that book "Knights and Dragons" showing a corner from under the pillow, the crayon box on the nightstand, the red box with the lid not quite closed. He quietly closed the door and went downstairs. Irene stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a cup of coffee.

"Kyle, are you taking her today?"

"Yes."

She nodded and handed him the coffee. He took it and drank a sip. Footsteps upstairs, Amy ran down, her hair tied up with a blue ribbon. She saw Kyle.

"Kyle, are we having bread today?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Ask your mom."

Irene came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of cereal and put it in front of Amy. Amy picked up the spoon and took a bite.

"Kyle, you're wearing short sleeves today."

"Yes."

"Aren't you cold?"

"No."

She nodded, finished the cereal, jumped down from the chair. "Let's go."

Kyle stood up. Irene looked at him. He pushed open the door and walked into the sunlight with Amy. She walked fast, didn't hold his hand. When they got to the school entrance, she stopped.

"Kyle, see you this afternoon."

"See you this afternoon."

She ran in. When she got to the school building entrance, she stopped and looked back at him, looked for two seconds, then pushed open the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Kyle stood there, looking at the closed door, then turned and walked back. When he got to the street corner, he stopped—there was an envelope on the ground, white, no postmark. He bent down to pick it up and opened it. Inside was a piece of paper with only one line: Does she like them?

Kyle folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, walked quickly home, and pushed open the door. Irene stood by the window, the curtain pulled back a crack. Dorothy sat at the dining table, knitting needles in hand.

"Kyle, did he send a letter?"

"Yes."

He took out the paper and put it on the table. Irene picked it up and looked at it for a while.

"Does she like them? He's asking you."

"What will you say back?"

Kyle didn't speak. He walked to the mantelpiece—the crayon box wasn't there, it was in Amy's room. The keys and birth certificate sat side by side. He didn't touch them, walked back and sat down, picked up his phone, and sent Seer a message. "She didn't say if she likes them. She put the crayons on her nightstand."

Seer was silent for a moment. "He says—okay."

Kyle put down his phone. Irene looked at him.

"Kyle, you told him?"

"Told him she put the crayons on her nightstand."

She nodded and said nothing.

In the afternoon, Kyle went to pick up Amy. The school bus turned the corner, brakes screeching. The door opened and kids jumped out one by one. The last one—blonde hair, blue backpack—she wore a sweater with the sleeves rolled up three times. She jumped down, saw him, and ran over.

"Kyle!" She grabbed his hand in her palm.

They walked back. She walked fast, didn't talk. When they got to the front door, she stopped.

"Kyle, did anyone come today?"

"No."

She nodded, pushed open the door and ran in. "Mom! Kyle says no one came today!"

Irene stood at the stove, spatula in hand. "I know."

Amy climbed onto the chair and sat. Kyle sat next to her. Irene brought out the food—potatoes, carrots, beef. Amy picked up her utensils and put a piece of beef in Kyle's bowl.

"Kyle, you eat."

He picked it up and put it in his mouth. Hot.

"How is it?"

"Not salty."

She smiled and ate her own food. After one bite, she stopped.

"Kyle, what else did that person ask?"

"Asked if you like the crayons."

"What did you say?"

"Said you put them on your nightstand."

She nodded and continued eating. After finishing the rice in her bowl, she jumped down from the chair and ran upstairs. After a while she ran back down, holding the crayon box—the red box, lid closed tight. She put the crayon box on the mantelpiece, next to the keys and birth certificate, stepped back and looked at it, looked for a while, then ran over and grabbed Kyle's hand.

"Kyle, tell him I like them."

Kyle looked at her. Her eyes were bright, blue.

"Okay."

She nodded, let go of his hand, ran to the stairs. "I'm going up to draw."

Kyle picked up his phone and sent Seer a message. "She says she likes them."

Seer replied instantly. "He says—okay."

Kyle put down his phone. Irene came out of the kitchen, dried her hands, and sat across from him. Kyle looked at the doorway—the door was open, the street corner empty. Klaus asked if she liked them, she said she did, he told him, Klaus knows now. He sat there. The crayon box on the mantelpiece, next to the keys and birth certificate, she put it there, she said she likes them. Life goes on.