Vision by Lisa Amowitz Page A

the late nineteenth century. Bobby didn’t remember ever seeing an estate that large on any of the back roads. It was tough to estimate how close to it he’d wandered on his last disastrous visit to the woods.

    “What’d the old man say about your eye, champ?” Dad asked, looking up from his newspaper.
    “Broken blood vessel. Nothing serious.”
    Dad grunted as Bobby rooted around in the pantry, then returned to his newspaper. It was only Tuesday, and there was barely anything left. He might have to cave and visit the public food pantry, breaking the ultimate taboo of Pendell pride. Instead, he had a brainstorm. He’d boil up the rice, spice the two cans of beans with chili and garlic powder, and that would take care of lunch and dinner. Then they’d only have to get through two more days.
    Provided that, by the end of the week, he still had a job.

    Dad wheeled over to the dining table. “Not bad, Bobby. This is actually quite tasty.”
    Dad’s new attitude was a welcome change, but Bobby couldn’t help but wonder if it was out of worry over him. After he’d cleared and washed the dishes, he grabbed his guitar. “I’ll be out back at the old house. I’ll bring the phone in case you need me.”
    Pete scampered ahead and Bobby followed, trudging through the tall grass to the narrow footpath that led to the forlorn old house. Its yellow shingles worn down to the dingy brown of decayed teeth, the house slumped on the hillside like a giant beast that had tried to make itself comfortable but got stuck in an awkward position.
    Tail wagging, Pete sniffed around the house’s perimeter, hopeful for a rodent to harass. Bobby pulled up a stool on the sagging porch, rested the guitar across his lap, and watched the play of light and shadow on the mountaintops. The old house had a much better view than the modular.
    It was hard to be out here, like trying to sip scalding tea—sweet, but painful. Bobby figured if he came here enough, eventually he’d develop a thick callus against the hurt of Mom’s departure. After three years, he was still waiting for that to happen.
    He kept a sleeping bag and camping lantern inside the house for those nights the paper-thin walls of the modular felt as if they were collapsing in on him.
    His fingers tapping the guitar’s smooth surface, he glanced at Mom’s rusted gardening tools, the tipped-over clay pots filled with crumbly soil and dried-up stalks. Even after Dad had come home disabled, even after they’d moved their entire life into the flimsy modular, Mom used to come out here and plant flowers. Surveying the dried ruins of her flowerbeds, Bobby wished he’d put more effort into carrying on the tradition.
    He picked up a gardening glove, one that had once been on Mom’s hand. Once he’d been able to slip his own hand inside, but they’d grown too large. He held on to it and closed his eyes—could he sense where she was?
    Nothing came to him but the hoot of a few owls and the light breeze brushing past his cheek.
    He dropped the glove and looked out at the panorama of gently rolling mountains. They used to have an old metal swing out on the porch where Mom would sit between him and Aaron, rocking and reading to them from their favorite books.
    Bobby closed his eyes again and tried to imagine what his world would be like if all he had were sound and smell and touch. And terrifying visions.
    He shivered, a chill crawling up his neck. The image of the gashed throat flashed in his mind’s eye again. The question was, did he use these visions to solve a murder, possibly preventing others from happening, or did he walk away?
    Bobby picked up a small, rusted shovel and hurled it into the trees.
    He tried to imagine what Mom would tell him to do—would she say to just ignore the clues and pretend it all never happened, or to deal with the consequences and uncover the truth?
    Bobby picked up the guitar and began to strum. Out at the house, all his licks were wailing blues riffs,