The June Boys: A Novel by Court Stevens

Author:Court Stevens
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsChristianPublishing
Published: 2020-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

THE ELIZABETH LETTERS

22

MAY

Streaks of pastel blue paint mark the beige wall near the ceiling. Ruby missed a spot the last time she painted. The guest room’s overlarge digital clock ticks away the red minutes. Warren’s wooden train chugs on through the night. Every miniature imagined circuit, Corey’s drawing breathes its dragon breath on Uncle Warren. There’s no getting around the fact that ten years ago he dragged a cardboard box from his attic to the patio, and we set and reset glow-in-the-dark train tracks until bedtime forced us inside.

I search for rest or at least comfort and can’t escape the sheet’s mummy trappings. I can’t escape that stupid train.

During Dad’s and my two-week stay, the caboose—a bright alien green after exposure to the floor lamp—glowed and burned through dozens of AA batteries. I was too old for trains but young enough to stuff Warren’s affection into the massive hole left by Mom. He was so good to me. He is so good to me. I ask my brain to stretch Saran-like around Warren stealing Aulus, Warren wearing a welding helmet, Warren giving the train to Corey. Warren killing Chris.

I can’t.

On the surface, he’s a far worse candidate for the Gemini Thief than Dad.

He’s too . . . Too what?

Good with kids?

That catches like a mental thorn.

Corey’s face appears on the screen of my mind. Damaged, but mostly not afraid Welder would inflict physical harm. He liked Welder. Welder never made him shower. Welder gave him a train. Stockholm syndrome? Sure. But whoever the Thief is . . . he essentially borrows someone else’s children to feed and clothe for a year.

I don’t think my dad loves children that much. Despite Constance’s opinion, Mom leaving a six-year-old daughter in Dad’s care full-time was awkward for all parties involved. The first year he cut my bangs with the same kitchen scissors he used on raw chicken. When I needed a training bra, he shoved money at Mrs. Baxter like he was buying illicit drugs. While other kids were eating hummus and carrots, sliced apples, pretzel sticks and peanut butter from their lunch boxes, Dad sent Vienna sausages and Easy Cheese. He’s been waiting for me to grow up most of my life, which probably explains all the times we’ve eaten ice cream at midnight.

Warren would have kept me a little girl forever.

The first two years we lived in Wildwood, 90 percent of my tantrums ended in I’d rather live with Uncle Warren than you. Once, I overheard Dad telling Warren, Thea loves you more than me. Warren had wisely said, Uncles aren’t in charge of discipline. If I were her dad, she’d hate me too. And my dad said, I don’t know. I really don’t know.

Eventually I grew out of Warren and into Dad. Or maybe I stopped lashing out at him because I couldn’t reach Mom. That didn’t happen until I was, what, nine or ten? By the summer Dad opened the tax shop we were on solid ground. That was 2000.

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