Life and Other Inconveniences(127)

“What’s wrong, honey?” Dad asked, coming out of the water (finally).

“I want to go home! I don’t feel good,” he sobbed. Daddy picked him up and held him close, but over his shoulder, Clark could see Sheppard’s mean face on.

“Don’t ruin this, Clark,” his father said.

“My tummy hurts,” Clark said to his father.

“You think you just have to poop?”

“No. I want to go home.”

Dad sighed, so Clark kept crying and hugged Daddy tighter. “It hurts a lot, Daddy,” he lied. “Like a sword.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s pack up, Sheppard.”

“Just bring him home! Let him stay with Mother if he’s such a baby. I’ll stay here and wait for you, Dad.”

“Sheppard. Your brother is sick. I’m not leaving you here in the woods.”

“Then we can bring him home and come back,” Shep pleaded.

Dad hesitated. “He seems really sick, son,” and Clark cried harder to prove it. “We can come back next weekend. No, no, don’t talk back. Start packing up.” He set Clark in the front seat of the car, and Clark couldn’t help a small, triumphant smile.

“He’s faking!” Shep said, and his voice was mean.

“Sheppard! Stop it.” Dad’s voice was sharp. “Clark, can you hang in there while we pack up?”

“I think so.” He made sure fat tears still rolled down his cheeks.

“Good boy.”

They took down the tent and packed up the fishing stuff, Sheppard cutting him resentful glances. Clark didn’t care. He’d take a bath at home with Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny. He wouldn’t be sandy and dirty and sticky. He’d smell nice and sleep in his bed and be away from the stupid woods.

Dad was tying the canoe to the roof of the car, tugging on the straps.

Where was Sheppard? Was he swimming again? That would be just like him, doing something so Clark would have to wait.

Or maybe he had found something. Sheppard always found neat stuff . . . the robin egg shells, the Indian arrowhead, a five-dollar bill. What if he had found something now? He wouldn’t share it, not when he was mad at Clark.

Dad was packing up the picnic stuff now. Without saying anything, Clark slipped out of the car and went to find Sheppard. If he was swimming, he could tattle on him. His brother wasn’t in sight, though. Clark climbed around the point of their little cove, and there was Sheppard, standing way up high on an outcropping of rock that looked like it would tumble into the lake at any second. Sheppard was brave, going up there.

“What are you doing?” Clark asked.

“I found something really neat,” Sheppard said.

He knew it. “What is it?

“Come up and see for yourself.”

Clark climbed up, too, but at the top, the reach was too far. “Help me,” he said.

“Help yourself, chicken. Why’d you have to ask to go home? You’re not sick. You ruined everything.”

“No, I didn’t. I want to go home. I don’t feel good.”

“You’re a liar.”

Clark was slipping. He grabbed the rock and tried to pull himself to the top, but he wasn’t quite strong enough, and his foot slipped. Pain shot up his shin. “I’m falling!” he said, and then Sheppard, stupid Sheppard, did grab him and pull him up.

“I’m bleeding,” Clark said, looking at his shin.

“It’s just a scrape. Don’t be a baby. Come on. Look at what I found.”

It was a huge feather, dark gray with a small patch of white at the base. “This is from a bald eagle,” Sheppard said.

“It is?”

“Yep. See how big it is? Almost as long as your arm. And it cuts in up here, see? That’s because it’s a raptor.” Sheppard knew so much. He read all the time.

“Can I have it?” Clark asked.

“No. It’s mine.”

“Can we share it?”

Sheppard tipped his head to one side. “You know what? I would’ve shared it, but you ruined our camp-out because you’re a big baby. So no. It’s just mine.”

“Mommy thinks you’re so nice, but you’re mean.”

“Mommy thinks you’re so nice, but you’re mean,” Sheppard echoed in the baby voice he used when he was mad at Clark.

“Shut up!”

“Ooh, I’m telling,” Sheppard said. “Mother says we’re never supposed to say that. You’re a baby, Clark. You can hardly swim and you’re afraid of being eaten by Tree People. You’re not sick. You’re just poor wittle Clarkie, scaredy-cat of the woods who wants his mama.”

Clark shoved him. He was a big boy and strong and would be a good football player someday, and Sheppard was surprisingly light. For a second, Sheppard’s arms waved in the air, and he was just . . . gone. There was a thud.

Uh-oh. Clark was going to get in big trouble. He stood there a minute, waiting for Sheppard to yell at him or call for Dad.

He didn’t. There was no noise at all. Not one sound.

Clark felt like he’d been dipped in ice water all of a sudden. Inch by inch, he went to the edge and looked over.

Sheppard was lying on the rock, the eagle feather next to his head.