Sparrows Falling From The Sky 3

I GOT A PHONE CALL FROM DANTE.

“SORRY, I HAVEN’T gone to see you,” he said.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood to talk to people.”

“Me neither,” he said. “Did my mom and dad tire you out?”

“No. They’re nice.”

“My mom says I have to go to a counselor.”

“Yeah, she said something like that.”

“Are you gonna go?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Your mom and my mom, they talked.”

“Bet they did. So are you gonna go?”

“When Mom thinks something is a good idea, there’s no escape. It’s best to go along quietly.”

That made me laugh. I wanted to ask him what he’d tell the counselor. But I don’t think I really wanted to know. “How’s your face?” I said.

“I like staring at it.”

“You’re really weird. Maybe it is a good idea for you to see a counselor.”

I liked hearing him laugh. It made things seem normal. A part of me thought things would never be normal again.

“Does it still hurt a lot, Ari?”

“I don’t know. It’s as if my legs own me. I can’t think about anything else. I just want to yank the casts off and, shit, I don’t know.”

“It’s all my fault.” I hated that thing in his voice.

“Listen,” I said. “Can we have some rules here?”

“Rules? More rules. You mean like the no-crying rule?”

“Exactly.”

“Did they take you off the morphine?”

“Yes.”

“You’re just in a bad mood.”

“This isn’t about my mood. It’s about rules. I don’t know what the big deal is—you love rules.”

“I hate rules. I like to break them mostly.”

“No, Dante, you like to make your own rules. So long as the rules are yours, you like them.”

“Oh, so now you’re analyzing me?”

“See, you don’t have to go to a counselor. You have me.”

“I’ll tell my mom.”

“Let me know what she says.” I think we were both smiling. “Look, Dante, I just want to say that we have to have some rules here.”

“Post-op rules?”

“You can call them that if you want.”

“Okay, so what are the rules?

“Rule number one: We won’t talk about the accident. Not ever. Rule number two: Stop saying thank you. Rule number three: This whole thing is not your fault. Rule number four: Let’s just move on.”

“I’m not sure I like the rules, Ari.”

“Take it up with your counselor. But those are the rules.”

“You sound like you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

I could tell Dante was thinking. He knew I was serious. “Okay,” he said. “We won’t ever talk about the accident. It’s a stupid rule, but okay. And can I just say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time? And can I say ‘thank you’ one more time?”

“You just did. No more, okay?”

“Are you rolling your eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, no more.”

That afternoon, he took the bus and came to visit me. He looked, well, not so good. He tried to pretend it didn’t hurt him to look at me but he could never hide anything that he felt. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I said. “The doctor said I was going to heal very nicely.”

“Very nicely?”

“That’s exactly what he said. So give me eight to ten or twelve weeks, and I’m going to be myself again. Not that being myself is such a great thing.”

Dante laughed. Then he looked at me. “Are you going to initiate a no-laughing rule?”

“Laughing is always good. Laughing works.”

“Good,” he said. He sat down and took out some books from his backpack. “I brought you reading material. The Grapes of Wrath and War and Peace.”

“Great,” I said.

He gave me a look. “I could have brought you more flowers.”

“I hate flowers.”

“Somehow I guessed that.” He grinned at me.

I stared at the books. “They’re fucking long,” I said.

“That’s the point.”

“Guess I have time.”

“Exactly.”

“You’ve read them?”

“’Course I have.”

“’Course you have.”

He slid the books onto the stand next to my bed.

I shook my head. Yeah. Time. Shit.

He took out his sketch pad.

“You going to sketch me in my casts?”

“Nope. I just thought that maybe you’d want to look at some of my sketches.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Don’t get too excited.”

“It’s not that. The pain comes and goes.”

“Does it hurt right now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking anything?’

“I’m trying not to. I hate the way whatever the hell they give me makes me feel.” I pushed the button on the bed, so I could sit up. I wanted to say “I hate this” but I didn’t. I wanted to scream.

Dante handed me the sketch pad.

I started to open it.

“You can look at it after I leave.”

I guess I was holding a question on my face.

“You have rules. I have rules too.”

It was good to laugh. I wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh until I laughed myself into becoming someone else. The really great thing about laughing was that it made me forget about the strange and awful feeling in my legs. Even if it was only for a minute.

“Tell me about the people on the bus,” I said.

He smiled. “There was a man on the bus who told me about the aliens in Roswell. He said that . . .” I don’t know that I really listened to the story. I guess it was enough just to hear the sound of Dante’s voice. It was like listening to a song. I kept thinking about the bird with the broken wing. Nobody told me what happened to the bird. And I couldn’t even ask because I would be breaking my own rule about not talking about the accident. Dante kept telling the story about the man on the bus and the aliens in Roswell and how some had escaped to El Paso and were planning on taking over the transportation system.

As I watched him, the thought came into my head that I hated him.

He read me some poems. They were nice I guess. I wasn’t in the mood.

When he finally left, I stared at his sketch pad. He’d never let anybody look at his sketches. And now he was showing them to me. To me. Ari.

I knew he was only letting me see his work because he was grateful.

I hated all that gratitude.

Dante felt he owed me something. I didn’t want that. Not that.

I took his sketch pad in my hands and flung it across the room.

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