The Dark Divine(3)

I rubbed my arms for warmth and sat next to him on the steps. “I’m sorry I spoke to Daniel. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

Jude massaged the parallel scars that scraped across the back of his left hand. It was something he did a lot. I wondered if he was even conscious of it. “I’m not mad,” he finally said. “I’m worried.”

“About Daniel?”

“About you.” Jude looked into my eyes. We had the same Roman nose and dark brown hair, but the resemblance in our violet eyes always felt a bit eerie—especially now, when I saw how much pain was reflected in his gaze. “I know the way you feel about him….”

“Felt. That was more than three years ago. I was just a kid then.”

“You’re still a child.”

I wanted to say something snide, like So are you, because he was barely a year older than me. But I knew he wasn’t trying to be mean when he said it. I just wished Jude would realize that I was nearly seventeen; I’d been dating and driving for almost a year.

Cold air seeped through my thin cotton sweater. I was about to go inside when Jude took my hand in his.

“Gracie, will you promise me something?”

“What?”

“If you see Daniel again, promise me you won’t talk to him?”

“But—”

“Listen to me,” he said. “Daniel is dangerous. He isn’t the person he used to be. You have to promise to stay away from him.”

I twisted my fingers in the yarn of the blanket.

“I’m serious, Grace. You have to promise.”

“Okay, fine. I will.”


Jude squeezed my hand and looked off into the distance. It seemed like he was staring a million miles away, but I knew his gaze rested on the weathered walnut tree—the one I’d been trying to draw in art class—that separated our yard from the neighbor’s. I wondered if he was thinking about that night, three years ago, when he last saw Daniel—the last time any of us saw him.

“What happened?” I whispered. It had been a long time since I’d had the nerve to ask that question. My family acted like it was nothing. But nothing wasn’t bad enough to explain why Charity and I were sent away to our grandparents for three weeks. Families don’t stop talking about something that was nothing. Nothing didn’t explain the thin white scar—like the ones on his hand—above my brother’s left eye.

“You’re not supposed to say bad things about the dead,” Jude mumbled.

I shook my head. “Daniel isn’t dead.”

“He is to me.” Jude’s face was blank. I’d never heard him talk like that before.

I sucked in a breath of frigid air and stared at him, wishing I could read the thoughts behind his stony eyes. “You know you can tell me anything?”

“No, Gracie. I really can’t.”

His words stung. I pulled my hand out of his grasp. I didn’t know how else to respond.

Jude stood up. “Leave it alone,” he said softly as he draped the afghan around my shoulders. He went up the steps, and I heard the screen door click shut. The television’s blue light flickered through the front window.

A large black dog padded across the deserted street. It stopped under the walnut tree and looked up in my direction. The dog’s tongue lolled out in a pant. Its eyes fixed on me, glinting with blue light. My shoulders collapsed with a shiver, and I shifted my gaze up to the tree.

It had snowed before Halloween, but that had all melted away a few days later, and it probably wouldn’t snow again until Christmas. In the meantime, everything in the yard was crusty and brown and yellow, except for the walnut tree, which creaked in the wind. It was white as ash and stood like a wavering ghost in the light of the full moon.

Daniel had been right about my drawing. The branches were all wrong, and the knot in the lowest one should have been turned up. Mr. Barlow had asked us to illustrate something that reminded us of our childhood. All I could see was that old tree when I looked at my piece of paper. But in the past three years, I had made it a point to avert my eyes when I passed it. It hurt to think about it—to think about Daniel. Now, as I sat on the porch, watching that old tree sway in the moonlight, it seemed to stir my memories until I couldn’t help remembering.

The afghan slipped off my shoulders as I stood. I glanced back at the front-room window and then to the tree. The dog was gone. It may sound weird, but I was glad that dog wasn’t watching as I went around to the side of the porch and crouched between the barberry bushes. I braved a nasty scratch on my hand as I felt under the porch for something I wasn’t even sure was there anymore. My fingertips brushed something cold. I reached farther in and slid it out.

The metal lunch box felt like an ice block in my bare hands. It was spotted with rust, but I could still make out the faded Mickey Mouse logo as I wiped years’ worth of grime off the lid. It came from a time that seemed so long ago. It used to be a treasure box where Jude, Daniel, and I kept our special things like pogs, and baseball cards, and that strange long tooth we found in the woods behind the house. But now it was a small metal coffin—a box that held the memories I wished would die.

I opened the lid and pulled out a tattered leather sketchbook. I flipped through the musty pages until I found the last sketch. It was of a face I had drawn over and over again because I could never get it right. He had hair so blond it was almost white then, not shaggy and black and unwashed. He had a dimple in his chin and a wry, almost devious smile. But it was his eyes that always eluded me. I could never capture their deepness with my simple pencil strokes. His eyes were so dark, so deep. Like the rich mud we used to sink our toes into at the lake—they were mud-pie eyes.