Theo by Ed Taylor

Must get outside.
    Theo wonders if he should be scared. It’s not getting better, but it’s hard to care, because everything seems so soft and he just wants to sleep. It’s the summer. Another day. He moves over the terrace, moving in a giant circle or stuck in a whirlpool, doing the same things he did earlier, walking the same places. How do you climb out. But Theo’s just a kid. There’s so much he has to wait on and depend on the grownups for. He makes sure the dogs get fed. He worries. He worries about his mother.He worries about Colin and about Gus. He worries about his dad.
    People talk about his dad a lot. People write about his dad. They say things about him that Theo doesn’t understand. They say things that bother Theo.
    Theo doesn’t feel like a pirate. And right now he starts to cry. Because maybe he’s dying.
     
    Do people know when they’re dying. His head is fuzzy, and he’s dizzy. He wants to be somewhere dark and cool and away.
    There is a moment of quiet, like the world is breathing. And from inside whatever room it’s in, Theo can’t remember now, comes the chiming. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one . Twenty two. Twenty three. There’s shouting and a faint clanging crash.
    The clock is broken. Theo remembers it sits on a mantel in one of the front rooms, close to where people usually start to congregate, drifting down from upstairs. The sun sits just over the bristly gray-green trees, and the earlier breezes are gone. The air hangs in curtains, and Theo notices Gus now, back in his chair, with a pipe. And a glass, his stubby legs crossed at the ankle. He is wearing a white T-shirt with a blue devil on it, from a college in North Carolina, Theo knows. Gus has on bright red socks and dark shoes. And a hat that says Jack Daniels. Why do pictures of the devil always show him smiling, if he’s supposed to be bad. And pictures of Jesus never show him smiling, and he’s supposed to be good.
    Gus is waving at Theo, waving him over. Come here, he’s saying with his hand. Theo shuffles over the wiry grass andbumpy ground, so hard and dry Theo’s feet hurt. He floats a little but is feeling heavier, more connected. His head hurts.
    Have you seen your mother.
    I don’t feel good.
    Gus sets down his glass on the rusty wrought iron table beside his chair and stares carefully at Theo, curvy pipe smoking. Theo follows the smoke straight up but the light stabs his eyes. Ow. He ducks his head back, closes eyes, feels dizzy.
    Here now, what’s wrong exactly. Gus smells sharp and sweet, which is coming from the rum in the glass.
    I guess I hit my head.
    Hold on, son, how’d you do that. Gus is leaning forward, trying to focus on Theo’s eyes but having to squint and then close one eye to see. Let me see your pupils.
    Theo unsquints, but the light’s still bright.
    How’d you hit your head.
    I was running and I fell down inside. On the rock part.
    Christ almighty. Are you seeing lights at all.
    No, Theo lied.
    You sure now.
    Yes. I just have a headache.
    Gus collapses back, into the chair, rubbing his face up and down and knocking off the hat. Well, maybe you should take it easy for a few minutes, eh. Maybe get an aspirin. If it keeps up bad we’ll make you up an icepack.
    Gus struggles up from the soft seat and lowers himself to the ground beside Theo, stiff and sighing a lot. Whew. That’s not an easy thing to do. Whyn’t you take the chair.
    Instead, Theo lays himself down, carefully, to avoid moving his head a lot.
    So how do you feel now, son.
    Fine.
    That’s fine. We can just rest our bones here for a bit, and go in and have a bite of something after a while. How about that.
    Frieda said she wanted to go to town for lunch.
    Did she. She came in like gangbusters last night. I’m surprised she’s up.
    Theo says nothing, but keeps his eyes open. In the blue high up