Twelve Impossible Things Before Breakfast by Jane Yolen Page B

was stupid lung cancer from his stupid smoking that had killed him. She tried to remember what her father had looked like, either before the cancer or after. But all that came to mind was what they had left of him, in a jar on a shelf in her mother’s den.
    Ashes.
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    Morning was dirty and gray as an erased blackboard. Brancy got up from her brother’s bed, where she had slept fitfully, on top of the covers. She brushed her teeth quickly, ran her fingers through her short hair, and got dressed with a lack of enthusiasm. The other girls in her class, she knew, made dressing the long, important focus of their day. But ever since ... She stopped herself. Then, afraid that she was beginning to sound like her mother, she said aloud, “Ever since Daddy died..." Well, clothes and things weren’t so important anymore. Or school.
    In fact, Brancy was so tired, she dozed through most of her classes. She was all but sleepwalking when she picked up Danny from afternoon kindergarten. Still, she was awake enough to see that his pinched-old-man look was gone, and she smiled at him. Hand-in-hand they walked back toward home, with Danny babbling on and on about stuff in a normal tone. Only, when they turned the corner of Prospect Street, he was suddenly silent and his face was the gray-white of old snow.
    â€œCat got your tongue, Mr. Brat?” Brancy asked.
    â€œDo you think..." he whispered, “that the Bolundeers will be waiting for us?”
    â€œOh, Danny!” Brancy answered, unable to keep the exasperation in her voice hidden. She was too tired for that. “Mom explained. I explained.” She shook her head at him. But his hand in hers was damp.
    â€œDon’t let them get me, Brancy,” he said. “Don’t let them hurt me. I’m not brave like Daddy.”
    She dropped his hand and knelt down in front of him so they were eye-to-eye. “No one,” she said forcefully, “is going to hurt you. Not while I’m around.”
    â€œDaddy got hurt.” His eyes teared up.
    She dropped her books to the ground and put her arms around him. She couldn’t think of anything to say. And besides, their mother didn’t want them to talk about it. She found herself snuffling, and Danny pulled away.
    â€œDon’t cry, Brancy,” he said.
    â€œI’m not crying. I’ve got a rain cloud in my eyes.” It was something their father used to say.
    â€œOh, Brancy!” Danny was suddenly bright again, as if he had forgotten all about his fears. He took her hand. “I think we need to go home now.”
    And they did. Straight home. Without talking.
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    Brancy did her homework in the living room, to keep an eye on Danny while he watched television. But she was so engrossed in the reading she didn’t notice when he left the room in between commercials. When she realized he was gone, she got up, stretched, and went to look for him.
    He wasn’t downstairs, and she raced up the stairs to see if he was—for some reason—in the bedrooms. Sometimes, she knew, a five-year-old could get into a lot of trouble by himself. But he wasn’t upstairs, either. She was dose to panic when she glanced out the bedroom window and saw him by the compost heap. What he was doing there was so shocking, she screamed. Then she ran down the stairs and outside, without taking time to put her shoes on. The grass soaked her socks.
    â€œDanny!” she cried. “Stop! Oh, Danny. What have you done?”
    He turned to her, smiling. “Daddy will take care of those Bolundeers all right. Just like he takes care of all the bad guys.”
    She took the urn from him and looked in. It was totally empty. She didn’t dare stare over his shoulder into the compost heap, where she knew the gray ashes would already be settling into the slime. “Oh, Danny,” she whispered, “we can’t tell Mommy. We just can't.
    And they didn’t. Not at dinner, and not