About the Author: Tanum Nelson is a 13 year old 8th grader on the Prodigy team. She enjoys playing soccer, her saxophone, reading, and watching movies.
"But-"
“Goddamn it, Henry!”
“Please-”
“NO! Just… just go to your room!”
The little boy’s shoulders dropped in defeat as tears pricked at the edges of his eyes. Turning slowly, he began the walk of shame to the stairs. Each step seemed to echo. When he reached the top of the staircase he turned. His father sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking. Henry didn’t know what scared him more, the fact that his father was crying or that he might have caused it.
“Henry got in trouble again!” John, the middle child, hollered as soon as he laid eyes on Henry, who had his head down. “What’d you do this time?” He pushed Henry towards the wall.
“Aw, lay off him, you little idiot.” Carlton scolded as he playfully hit John upside the head. He smiled gently at Henry as John rubbed his head and ran downstairs, probably to tell Dad.
“You okay there, big guy?” Carlton asked, his blue eyes full of concern as he ruffled Henry’s hair.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Henry choked out as he rubbed the tears from his eyes. He winced as he remembered that his left eye was bruised.
“Alright, you don’t have to,” He patted Henry’s back and pushed him gently towards his room. “Do you want to go listen to some records with me?” He flashed the gentle smile again.
“Yeah,” Henry felt better already. “Wait- but I’m gonna get in even more trouble if Dad finds out.”
“Don’t worry about it, bud,” Carlton’s eyes gleamed with mischief, “He doesn’t have to know.”
Every square inch of the walls of Carlton’s bedroom was covered with posters of jazz legends and soccer players, broken down signs that he found on the side of the road, clippings from newspapers and magazines, photographs of friends and family, and even paintings that Carlton had painted himself. There was a queen sized bed tucked away in a corner with a large patchwork quilt of all shades of blue draped over it. A vintage record player and a copper cup sat atop a bedside table. Sheets of paper with scribbled bars of music were scattered across the floor in messy heaps. It was as if Henry has stepped inside of Carlton’s brain. Henry was the only person Carlton allowed into his room willingly besides their father who occasionally barged in without permission.
The wailing notes of Charlie Parker’s alto saxophone projected from the record player as the two boys laid on the blue quilt on their backs as they looked at the ceiling. They lay there for hours without speaking a word to each other, just listening to the music, when Carlton finally broke the silence.
“So, what happened? You didn’t think I wouldn't notice that pretty shiner you’ve got there?”
“I got in a fight,” Henry stated plainly.
“Duh, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out,” Carlton joked. “Why?”
“They said a mean thing about Mom,” Carlton’s body went rigid.
“What did they say?” He asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“They said… that she was a psycho junkie and that the world was better off without her in it. That they were glad she did herself in,” Henry confessed and turned on his side to look nervously at his older brother. Carlton was a handsome young man of fifteen years with blue eyes and short light brown hair. He was either smiling or causing someone else to smile or laugh. Sometimes Henry wondered if this facade was all just a big show to cover up the memories that Carlton felt whenever he thought about their mother.
Carlton’s easygoing features, now, twisted with the pain he rarely let surface. Henry awaited his reply anxiously. But as quickly as the look of pain appeared, it vanished underneath the act which was Carlton’s mask.
The two boys sat in what seemed like an unending silence when finally Carlton sat up. Henry expected him to say something, but all Carlton did was turn Charlie Parker with the Strings: The Master Takes up on the record player as both of the boys favorite song, Summertime, came on.
Three years passed. 1095 days of boring routine.
Henry was now ten years old, Carlton; 17, and John; 15. Days at school turned grey, the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until Henry felt grey himself. The only time Henry felt color return to him was when he laid on the quilt of blue with Carlton listening to records. The boys would hang out in that room together for hours and hours, constructing their own imaginary worlds, painting and drawing on the few white spaces of Carlton’s wall, listening to music, and reading. Sometimes Carlton would even play some tunes for Henry on his tenor saxophone. On Saturday mornings they would cuddle up on the filthy couch, bowls of cereal in hand, as they laughed at the Looney Tunes on the television. When the boys weren’t in Carlton’s room they were outside playing soccer in the pavemented streets or hiking into the woods near the park to play in the creek.
Occasionally, John would join them. But now that John had a pretty blonde girlfriend named Brooke, he wasn’t around as much anymore. Carlton had plenty of friends himself but he chose to spend as much time with Henry as he could, which didn’t make sense to Henry sometimes. If Henry had friends he would spend time with them.
Henry awoke to a loud thump.
He glanced at the clock, which read 1:48 am. Tumbling out of his bed, he crawled on his hands and knees to the door. Henry’s room was across the hallway from Carlton’s room who had the door wide open. Peering through the crack in his door he watched.
Carlton was on his knees and his hands covered his face. His knuckles seemed to be bloody. At first Henry didn’t know what was going on, but as soon as Carlton lowered his hands and looked at the ceiling he saw.
Carlton was crying.
It was a cry of true despair. Tears were streaming down his face. His mouth holding in the screams he wanted to let go, but instead kept in. It was silent and hopeless. Henry was afraid. He had never ever seen this much pain inside a person, much less his best friend and brother.
Thump.
Henry watched in horror. He knew what had awakened him.
All the sudden Carlton was punching the hardwood floor. Red blood started to trickle down his hands as a look of pure rage and sorrow tore across his face. Neverending tears flowed from his eyes, down his cheeks, and hit the ground.
Henry, still hidden, watched on as John sprinted down the hallway and threw himself to the ground to hug Carlton.
John spoke in calm, whispered tones as he pet Carlton’s hair, “Stop… you’ll wake Henry.”
Carlton’s body sank in defeat as he collapsed into John’s arms.
The next morning Henry sat at the kitchen table eating soggy Cheerios as Carlton came down the stairs wearing the usual gray sweatpants and white shirt that he always wore to bed. His knuckles were bandaged in white gauze and his eyes were rimmed red but he acted as if nothing had happened last night at 1:48 am.
“Hey bud, how’d you sleep?” Smile.
“Good.” Henry glanced up at him and then quickly looked back down at his cereal.
“Where’s Dad?” Smile.
Henry nodded over to the couch. Their father laid on the couch in an alcohol-induced sleep. The ground surrounding him was littered with beer bottles.
Carlton’s smile dimmed as he took in the state of his father, but it quickly returned when he asked his little brother if he wanted him to make chocolate chip pancakes and then go to the creek.
4:00 am.
An older brother was supposed to be home by 11:30.
A little boy awoke anxiously to flashing red and blue lights and the sound of police sirens.
Men in navy suits and gold badges stood at the doorstep with their hats in their hands and their heads bowed.
Henry hid at the top of the stairs with just enough view to see the front door. He jumped as a hand reached his shoulder, but it was only John. As soon as Henry looked at John’s face he knew that something was wrong.
Henry’s father stood at the doorway talking in a low voice with the men.
Suddenly they said something that made Henry’s father sink to his knees.
The officers turned with heavy shoulders and sad faces as they got in their cars and drove off.
John pushed past Henry as he raced down the creaky stairs.
“What is it? Where’s Carlton?”
[Excerpt from Local Newspaper Article]
June 23, 1987.
Carlton James Stone left a party at 11:00 pm to get home in time for the curfew he had set for himself. Since Stone did not own a car he had to catch a ride with his friend, Russ Kirby. At 11:15pm, the car was t-boned at an intersection on the passenger side. Stone was sitting in the passenger seat and was killed on impact. Kirby over went various sobriety and blood alcohol tests after the accident and was found to have a blood alcohol level of 0.13%. He escaped with a concussion and shards of glass in the skin of his hands and knees and currently resides in the hospital.
Eight years ago, Melanie Watts Stone was found in the bathtub, dead, by a nine-year-old Carlton. The death was ruled as a suicide drug overdose. Each family member was affected in their own way.
Henry, too young to remember what had happened but was left with his incomplete memories and the struggle of growing up without a mother. He closed himself off from the kids at his school and as a result didn’t have many friends.
John was young as well but figured out enough to know what was going on. He grew a deep anger inside of himself; at the world, his mother, his father.
The father turned to alcohol, relying on it to dull the pain and suppress the memories of his beautiful wife who he thought was fine. After he abandoned his children, Carlton had stepped up as the parent figure, packing lunches, playing catch, helping with homework, doing everything a father should.
Carlton was traumatized and grief stricken. He underwent intense therapy which helped but he was still not all there. He also had to step up and become more responsible to help his younger brothers. It wasn’t until he started playing and listening to more music that he started to return to his normal self. There were times when he was all alone, in the dark, where the sight of his dead mother would haunt him. When this happened he was consumed with a feeling that is indescribable. Intense anger, sadness, confusion. Thousands of questions unanswered. How could she be so selfish?
How?
Henry stood in front of the door to his dead brother’s room. Now fourteen years old, Henry was the spitting image of Carlton. Brown hair, piercing blue eyes, dimples, but, unlike Carlton, he had a splash of freckles across his nose.
It had been four years since the crash. He had managed to avoid this room for four years.
Taking a deep breath he stepped inside.