Chapter 68 Arrived

Chapter 68 Arrived

When the mailman came, Kyle was sitting in a chair. The door was open, the street corner empty. A green pickup stopped at the corner, and the mailman jumped out, holding a manila envelope. He walked to the door, bent down and slid it through the gap. Kyle stood up, walked to the door and picked up the envelope. His name was written on it, no stamp, no postmark. He opened it—inside was a sheet of paper with just one line: Did she draw?

Kyle folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, walked back and sat down. Irene came out of the kitchen, drying her hands, and sat across from him.

"Who was it?"

"Him."

"What did he say?"

"Asked if she drew."

She said nothing. Kyle pulled out his phone and sent Seer a message: "Did she draw?" Seer replied instantly, "You're asking me? Who do I ask?" Kyle put down his phone, stood up, and walked to Amy's room. The door was open, a crayon box sat by the bed, lid closed. On the desk was a half-finished drawing: a tree, two people underneath—one tall, one short. The tall one held a key, the short one held a crayon. Not finished yet—the tree had no leaves, the people had no faces. He looked at it for a while, turned and went downstairs, sat down, picked up his phone and typed: "Half finished. Tree has no leaves. People have no faces."

Seer was silent for a moment. "He says—wait till it's finished."

Kyle put down his phone. Irene looked at him. "He wants her to finish it?"

"Yes."

"Then what?"

"Don't know."

She nodded, 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, sleeves rolled up twice, knitted by Dorothy, red. She jumped off the bus, saw him, and ran over.

"Kyle!" She grabbed his hand.

He looked down at her sweater, red, sleeves rolled up twice, showing her forearms. "New sweater?"

"Grandma made it."

"Looks good."

She smiled, walked fast, said nothing. At 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. "Got it."

Amy climbed onto a chair and sat down. Kyle sat beside 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. After one bite, she stopped.

"Kyle, what else did that person ask?"

"Asked if you drew."

"What did you say?"

"Said half finished. Tree has no leaves, people have no faces."

She nodded and kept eating. When she finished the rice in her bowl, she jumped off the chair and ran upstairs. After a while she ran back down, holding the drawing—the tree was finished, leaves were red; the people were finished, the tall one held a key, the short one held a crayon. Both faces were drawn: the tall face had no expression; the short face was smiling. She handed the drawing to Kyle.

"It's finished."

Kyle looked at the drawing. The tree was red, leaves covered the ground, two people stood under the tree—the tall one holding a key, the short one holding a crayon. The short one was smiling, the tall one had no expression. He folded the drawing and tucked it inside his left sleeve. Seven drawings stuck together.

"Kyle, you tell him it's finished."

"Okay."

She nodded and ran to the stairs. "I'm going up to draw." She ran up, footsteps pattering.

Kyle picked up his phone and sent Seer a message: "It's finished. Tree is red, leaves cover the ground. Two people stand under the tree, the tall one holds a key, the short one holds a crayon. The short one is smiling, the tall one has no expression."

Seer was silent for a moment. "He says—who are the people in the drawing?"

Kyle looked at the screen. "The tall one. The short one. No names."

"He says—he knows."

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

"Kyle, does he know now?"

"He knows."

She nodded, said nothing.

When it got light, Kyle stood up and walked to the window, pulled back the curtain—the street corner was empty. He let the curtain fall and went upstairs. Amy was still sleeping. He stood in her doorway for a while: she slept on her side, one hand out from under the covers resting on the pillow, the book "Knights and Dragons" peeking out from under the pillow, the crayon box on the nightstand with the lid closed, new drawing paper on the desk, white, blank. He stood for a while, quietly closed the door, and went downstairs. Irene stood in the kitchen doorway, holding 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, hair tied up, blue ribbon, wearing the red sweater, sleeves rolled up twice. 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 set 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 off 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. At the school gate, she stopped.

"Kyle, see you this afternoon."

"See you this afternoon."

She ran in. When she reached the 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. At the street corner, he stopped—on the ground was a package wrapped in brown paper with his name on it. He bent down and picked it up, opened it—inside was a new textbook, cover new, corners sharp. He opened the front page—it said "Amy Harper," and below that, handwritten, tight letters: Kyle. Next to it was a drawing of a key, gold, taking up half the page. Kyle looked at it for a while, closed the textbook, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked quickly home, pushed open the door. Irene stood by the window, curtain pulled back a crack. Dorothy sat at the dining table, knitting needles in hand.

"Kyle, what did he send?"

Kyle pulled the textbook from his pocket and put it on the table. Irene picked it up and opened it—the front page said "Amy Harper," "Kyle," with a drawing of a key. She looked at it for a while, closed it, put it on the table.

"He filled in the page she was missing."

"Yes."

She nodded, said nothing. Kyle picked up the textbook, walked to Amy's room, put it on the desk, on top of the drawing paper. He walked back and sat down. Irene looked at him.

"Kyle, why did he send a textbook?"

"Because she was missing a page."

She nodded. Kyle looked at the doorway—door open, street corner empty. Klaus sent a textbook with "Kyle" written on the front page, with a drawing of a key. He knew she was missing a page from her textbook. He filled it in. Kyle sat there, the textbook on Amy's desk. When she got home from school she would see it, and when she saw it, she wouldn't ask. She would just open it, see that line, see that key, then close it and put it under the drawing paper. And wait for him to come back.