As Bright as Heaven(9)

The man-boy struggles on the landing with the trunk despite his size and strength. I help him finagle the trunk through the narrow doorway.

“Thanks,” he says as we maneuver the trunk inside and by the bed. “You want to empty it now? I was told to bring it back down to the carriage house when you’re done with it. Your mother and sisters are unpacking theirs.”

“I guess.” I reach down to unlatch the closures.

“I’m Charlie,” he says. “Charlie Sutcliff. I live across the street. But I work for Fred Bright.”

There is something odd about the way he tells me who he is. His words and voice and even his expression make him seem like he’s Willa’s age, but his body is one that’s much older.

“My name’s Maggie,” I reply.

“I know. I remembered. Evelyn, Maggie, and Willa. And Mrs. Bright and Mr. Bright. But you call Evelyn Evie.”

I give him a sideways glance as I open the trunk and start to pull out my things. I toss my clothes and quilt and a doll that was my mother’s onto the bed. Then I grab the books and shoes and my hatboxes of ribbons and half-finished needlepoint projects and place them on the floor. Charlie helps me with some of these. Lastly, I pull out the painting of a sailing ship on a green-blue sea that was Grandad’s and that he gave me when we were getting ready to move because he knew I’d always liked it. The ship is pointed toward a faraway horizon, and little waves are curling up its sides like bits of lace.

“I like that ship!” Charlie says, as if he were my eight-year-old cousin Liam back home in Quakertown.

“I do, too.”

“Have you been to Hog Island? It’s full of ships being built, not hogs. Navy ships. Big ones. They’re for the war. They’re huge. Have you been there? To Hog Island?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. “We just got here today.”

“You should go. Jamie takes me there sometimes. To see the ships. Jamie likes trains better than ships, but he takes me there sometimes because I like ships.”

“Who’s Jamie?”

“He’s my brother. He likes trains. But they don’t have trains for war. Only ships. He’s not going to the navy. He doesn’t like ships. He’s going to the army. But not until April. In April, he’ll go.”

“Jamie is older than you?”

Charlie nods. “I’m sixteen. Jamie had a birthday. He’s twenty-one now. He counts with my father in the office. But in April, he’ll go to the army.”

“He counts?”

“You know. One. Two. Three. They count.”

“He’s a bookkeeper like your dad?”

“Sure.”

The entire time Charlie is talking to me, he’s picking up each one of my books and studying their spines. It’s like he’s not reading the spines, but rather just admiring the gold and silver and ebony lettering. I don’t have near the books that Evie has, but I have some. Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, and the Just So Stories, and The Wind in the Willows, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and a few others.

“You like to read?” I ask.

Charlie puts down the book he’s looking at. It’s Five Children and It by E. Nesbit. It’s one of my favorites. It’s about these children who find a sand fairy who grants them a wish a day. You’d think that would be wonderful, right? But when those children get what they truly want every day, trouble starts to pop up all over the place.

“You can borrow that one if you want,” I tell him. “It’s a good book.”

Charlie shakes his head. “I’m not good at reading. I don’t do the counting good, either. I work for Fred.”

He looks at the book with what seems to me to be longing, despite what he just told me. “Go ahead and borrow it,” I say. “The more you read, the better you’ll get at it, you know.”

Charlie picks up the book and turns to the first page. He has a puzzled look on his face, as if the words on the page are written in another language.

“Where do you go to school, Charlie?”

“Oh. I don’t go to school anymore. No. I just work for Fred.”

I can see how much he wants to be able to read those words. I feel sorry for him. To be sixteen and unable to read! If Evie were in the room, she’d probably burst into tears. I wonder how his parents could’ve failed him so miserably.

“Here.” I pull the book from his hands; shove my pile of clothes, the doll, and the quilt to one side; and pat the bed. “Have a seat.”

I sit down and wait for him. He just stands there.

I pat the mattress again. “Sit down. I’ll help you get started.”

He finally ambles over to me and sits down beside me. He has the most amazed look on his face, like I am the sand fairy about to grant him his wish for the day.

I open the book and point to the first word of the first chapter. “Can you read that?”

He smiles shyly and shakes his head.

“Sure you can. You did go to school, didn’t you?”

“I work for Fred now.”

“Yes, I know that. But when you were a little boy, you went to school, right? And your teacher taught you your letters?”

His grin spreads wide. “I do know my letters.”

“Well. See? Words are just letters put together. If you know your letters, you can learn the words. And if you can learn the words, you can read. Here. I’ll show you.”