Ghost Not Forgotten

IV: Then

By the time he was eight, Bennet had mastered climbing the drainpipe on the side of my house as a way to get to my second story bedroom window. Since he was always trying to get away from his house, it was normal for him to come tumbling through my window at all hours of the day and night.

By the time we were fourteen, I didn't even flinch when I heard the creaking of the drainpipe and scuffling on the roof. Instead I waited until I heard the thud of his sneakers on my carpet and the screech of the window as he shut it.

This certain night though, the thud of his sneakers was heavier and the screech of the window was long and drawn out. I turned from my desk where I had been trying – but failing – to do my math homework and looked at him.

He was drunk, I could see, or at least pretty tipsy. His eyes were puffy and swollen, his cheeks were blotchy and his jaw was clenched, telling me he had been crying a lot. His hair was sticking up in weird places and had some hay stuck in it, telling me he had been lying in Shellman's barn for awhile too.

It was the night after they found his mama in the river and he had been missing all afternoon and evening.

Everybody had wanted me to tell them where they could find him, since I was the one who would know best, but I wouldn't tell them. Just like I wouldn't go and find him. Bennet was the kind who when he wanted to be found and comforted, he came to you, you didn't go to him. It was just how he worked and I knew that. I knew he'd eventually come through my window, I trusted it, but I still worried as the hours ticked on. I still worried about how drunk he'd get and what if he stumbled in front of a moving car or something.

But I still waited for him to come and, sure enough, he did.

He didn't say anything. He just shuffled over to my bed and sat down with his back to me. I got up and sat next to him. We sat in silence for a while. I knew I had to wait for him to speak first.

"They said it was suicide," he said, his voice gargled and low.

I lowered my head, but took his hand between my two. It was rough and dry as always, but ice cold which it never was.

"They said it was only a matter of time before she'd lose it," he said.

Sometimes I hated the cops in Keplar's. They had a hard time keeping their big mouths shut.

"She just couldn't get happy," he whispered as tears bubbled in his eyes. "She just couldn't get happy."

Bennet had had a strange relationship with his mama. With Mrs. Malene's mental health getting steadily worse as Bennet got older, their roles switched around the time he was ten, when he suddenly became the caregiver of a grown woman. She embarrassed him constantly. Having the town loon as your mother wasn't exactly something a pre-teen boy could handle well. He made fun of her all the time, griped about her even more, and said on more than one occasion how he wished he had a different mama, one who ideally wasn't crazy.

But the second one of our classmates called Mrs. Malene crazy, Bennet was on top of them and punching their faces in. When they were out and about and Mrs. Malene had one of her breaks, or just started talking to her invisible friends, Bennet threatened the little kids who pointed and giggled, or made sharp remarks to the few adults who had the gall to stare at poor Mrs. Malene. Whenever she got agitated, or started to slip into her uncontrollable sadness, Bennet would be there, hands on her cheeks, whispering to her in soft tones, keeping her hands from ripping out her hair or smacking her head, convincing her to take her pills. No one – not even Stanley, who was one of the two people she'd let touch her – could calm her like Bennet could. Away from her, he claimed to have no patience with her, but when she was low, there wasn't a person in the world who had more patience than Bennet. Sometimes it took hours to calm her, and Bennet never left her side for a second. He always made sure she was okay.