A Morning Like This (18 page)

“Sweet.”

Braden wasn’t admiring the lesion nearly as much as Jake might have hoped he would. Jake touched it gingerly once more, trying
again for sympathy. “My mom thought I might have smashed my spleen, but I didn’t.” He gave up and pulled his shirt down. “What
you thinking about?”

“Nothing much.” Which was a lie.

Braden was thinking about all sorts of things. He was thinking what good stories he could tell about the vials and the tubes
and the needles he’d seen in that hospital lab room. How they’d given him a cotton ball to hold against his arm and how a
nurse drew a bear face on it. How they’d made his dad lean down and put his head between his legs right in the middle of everything
while the nurse said, “Mr. Treasure, take deep breaths. You are about to faint!”

Braden was thinking he could say,
That needle was as long as Lick Creek going into my arm. And then they sucked out so much blood that they filled up
five
containers, and those containers were all rolling around on a tray. It was eeew, yuck, and I was
brave
to let them take it out and they took so much that I think they might use it to save somebody
.

It would make for a good story, all right.

But for some reason, Braden kept thinking maybe he ought not to tell it. He kept thinking maybe he ought to keep it quiet,
with how stirred up he felt in his heart about his dad and mom fighting with each other. He didn’t want
anybody
to know about that.

Almost every morning of Braden’s life, Brewster had nosed open Braden’s door, creaking the hinges and barging his way in.
Almost every morning, Braden threw back the covers for him and Brewster jumped in, nestling down low in the bed so no one
could find him. Two mornings ago Braden had taken the dog’s big, scruffy neck in his arms and hung on for dear life, ignoring
the dog-food breath and trying to ignore the anger in his parents’ voices and the words he didn’t understand.

“Hey, Brade. We’re at the top of the lift.”

Jake gave him a shove because he’d almost missed getting off. When he jumped down, he carried his questions with him, low
in his middle, along with a slight tinge of fear. His friends were already warring over the best sleds—the orange or the blue,
or the one with the skid marks that Chase had commandoed and won races with last week.

At first, Braden hadn’t understood what his mom and dad had been talking about. He hadn’t understood the hurt in his mom’s
voice, nor the defense in his dad’s.

As he listened, though, he’d begun to realize what they were whispering about. They were whispering about that little girl
he was supposed to be able to help.

It made him want to shudder, hearing how unhappy they were. He had heard them fight before, but he had never heard them talk
to each other like that. Fear had chilled him; even the panting dog under the blankets hadn’t kept him warm.

“Hey, Treasure. What’s wrong?” Jake lifted a sled and dropped it on the track. “Are you mad about something?”

“No.”

“Then what are you holding the line up for? It’s your turn.”

Braden took the first available orange sled and settled himself feet first. He leaned forward into the course and hung on
to the sides of the cart as it started moving, its metal wheels bumping over the seams in the concrete with a rhythmic
thunk thunk thunk
.

Once, when they’d been in the third grade, Charlie Hessler had said, “The worst thing that could ever happen to me would be
if my mom and dad broke up.” Three months later, Charlie’s dad got an apartment on Pearl Street and Charlie went to visit
him on Sundays to watch football.

As he went down the slide, Braden passed a patch of harebells, and thought of his grandma who loved harebells. He began to
go faster, bursting through the quick sun-and-shadow of the pines. The brim of his baseball cap caught air and he almost lost
it. He yanked it off and stuck it between his legs where it would be safe.

Even though he’d been sad for his friend Charlie, even sadder because Charlie had talked to him about it beforehand, Braden
couldn’t help feeling just a little bit proud.

My dad kisses my mom when they think I’m not looking. My mom wraps her arms around his neck like she never wants to let go.
Sometimes they pinch each other and pop each other with rubber bands and laugh
.

Although that part was yucky and mushy and he tried to ignore it, it made him just a little happy, too.

My parents would never break up, not in a million years
.

Braden picked up more speed. He rode the turns hard all the way. The mottled shade felt cool on his face, and aspens zoomed
by in flashes of white.

A chiseler paused on the side of the half-pipe, and Braden couldn’t resist aiming the sled for it. The rodent raised its front
paws and chattered at him, its tiny body a question mark. It scurried away just in time.

Maybe it’s my fault they’re so upset. I must have done something wrong
.

Braden leaned further forward. He was flying—too fast, breaking the rules of the slide. It didn’t matter. Today he didn’t
feel like obeying rules anymore. Water streamed from his eyes along the sides of his face. He squeezed them shut and tried
to remember the prayer everybody wanted him to memorize from Sunday school.

Our Father, who art in heaven
…

Hm-mm. He couldn’t remember any more. He took a running start at it and tried again.

Our Father, who art in heaven
…

That’s as far as he could get. Certainly not far enough to do any good. Nothing like calling God’s name and then leaving Him
hanging.

The bottom of the Alpine Slide loomed ahead of him. On the bridge beside the miniature golf course, mothers held their children
tightly and pointed at him. He narrowed his eyes at them, pleased with himself, and leaned into the downhill, thinking again
that maybe he was to blame. He wasn’t thinking about the slide anymore. No one could catch him, or match this speed.

He passed beneath the shadow of the bridge and someone shouted at him.

That’s when Braden finally looked up.

Just ahead of him on the track, Wheezer, his own teammate, had stopped at the end of the track. He was slowly climbing out
of his cart.

“Wheezer! Jacoby. Out of the way!”

Braden wrenched the brakes. Metal wheels screeched against concrete. Wheezer bellowed and rolled out. Braden hit Wheezer’s
sled with a crash that sent it toppling violently into the grass. Wheezer stayed on all fours, his head drooping toward the
ground as Braden’s cart bashed into the tires at the end and, with an awful jounce, flew end over end in the air. Braden’s
Elk’s-Club cap went soaring. He tumbled safely into the grass.

“Too fast!” hollered the man running out of the ticket booth toward him. “Too fast!” He caught Braden by the arm and yanked
him around. “What’s your name?” the man demanded. “You tell me, what’s your name? You were riding dangerously. You could have
hurt somebody. You aren’t riding here anymore.”

Charlie said, “Did you see all those chiselers on the track? I almost hit one.”

“Hey,” Jake bellowed from behind them. “Wheezer can’t breathe.”

Wheezer crawled on the ground in no apparent direction, his nose low to the grass, his fingers desperately spearing the blades.
His gasps for breath came labored and hollow—the same eerie, rattling whistle as a flute.

“He’s lost his inhaler,” Charlie shouted. “Come on!”

Braden tried to help Wheezer but the ticket man held on and wouldn’t let him go. He stood watching, helpless and terrified,
as eight of his team members worked through the grass like starlings, getting in one another’s way.

“What does it look like?”

“It’s orange.”

“It’s a little bottle that you push.”

“There’s a prescription thing on it with his name.”

Wheezer gave up and rocked back on his heels, sucking and rattling for air.

“I’ve got it!” Chase leapt from the lawn, clenching the medication in his fist. “Here, Wheezer. Here. I found it. Take this!”

Jake held Wheezer’s shoulders while he and Chase fumbled for what seemed like an eternity with the small plastic spout. Then
came the
hiss
, and another
hiss
, and Wheezer gasped and gulped in a great lungful of air.

“Yeah, Wheezer!” they all shouted, applauding their friend, paying tribute to their own relief.

“Way to go.”

“Good job.”

Wheezer took three more deep, satisfying breaths before he could speak.

“Thanks for my inhaler, dude. I must have lost it.”

“Wheezer—” Braden tried to wrench free.

“Oh, no you don’t.” The ticket man gripped Braden’s biceps. “You’re not going anywhere.” He pulled a radio out of his pocket
and keyed it. “Call for Snow King Security. Call for Snow King Security. Security needed immediately at the Alpine Slide.”

“Oh, c-come on.” Braden tried to choke the words out, and they weren’t very respectful. It didn’t matter, though; his protest
wasn’t loud. He couldn’t breathe, either. His own windpipe was choked with tears.

N
elson Hull and David Treasure jaywalked across Cache Street, dodging the two Clydesdale horses and red tourist stagecoach
making the same slow, circuitous route it made at least three dozen times each day. Nelson mouthed a Dum Dum lollipop he’d
picked out of a teller’s jar in the bank lobby. “David, you’re my climbing partner. This is hard. I don’t know how to start
this.”

“You’re good at starting things. They pay you to start things. You’re a preacher.”

“You want a Dum Dum?” He pulled several out of his pocket.

“How many of those did you take?” David asked. “The bank can’t afford you much longer.”

“Here.” Nelson tossed him a green one, David’s favorite. Only a good friend would have known what flavor he’d want.

“Thanks.” David caught it in midair and jabbed it into his pocket.

“Well,” Nelson started again.

They passed through the famous elk-antler arches that curved over each entrance to the town square. Just as they did, a gentleman
in Bermuda shorts handed David a camera.

“Here we go. Sir, would you mind taking our picture for us? I’ve got five rolls of vacation, and there isn’t a one with me
in it.”

“Sure. No problem. I’ll take it.”

David and Nelson both watched as the man took charge and arranged everyone. He had a certain place he wanted them, on the
rock pedestal beneath the landmark tangle of horn. For a moment, David was distracted again, listening as the fellow gave
him instructions on how to focus and which button to push. He lifted the camera to his eye and saw a family very much like
his own inside the viewfinder. The father hurried around to take his place, spreading his arms wide to encompass his wife
and children.

“Okay, are you ready?”

“Yes!” they all chimed.

“Okay. Say…” By this time, just looking at them, David had to clear his throat and start over again. “Say ‘cheese.’ On the
count of three.”

“Cheeeese,” the children said, before he’d even gotten ready.

“Okay. One. Two.
Three
.”

“Cheeeese!” they all shouted, their arms wrapped around each other, their grins as broad as the MacKenzie drift boats used
by fishing guides on the Snake River.

David snapped the picture and handed over the camera. “Here you go.” He thought of all the family Christmas card portraits
he, Abby, Braden, and Brewster had posed for. Under the antler arch. On the balcony of the Old Faithful Inn. In a raft, riding
the whitewater called Lunchcounter.

“Thanks so much.”

David watched them a few moments more, then he and Nelson walked on. They came to the veterans memorial statue in the center
of the square—a bronze cowboy busting a bronco over a listing of Jackson Hole heroes from each war. Some of these family surnames
went back ninety years. Warren Watsabaugh. Bert Schofield. Pete Karnes, Harvey Hagen, and Clinton Budge. Nelson sat down beside
those names and said, “When you hear what we’re going to talk about, you’ll wish we’d gone mountain climbing instead. It would
have been easier.”

“Well, then. Go ahead.”

The affection and regard in his eyes spoke of something larger than himself. “I think we need to talk about what’s happening
between you and Abby.”

A beat. David offset his jaw then righted it again. “Well, I don’t know why we’d need to talk about that.”

“Maybe we need to discuss it because I’m your pastor. Maybe we need to discuss it because I’m your friend.”

David picked up a stick lying beside his feet in the grass. “Seems to me that’s Abby’s business and my business, Nelson.”
He hurled the stick, watched it soar aloft. “It isn’t yours.”

When David turned back to Nelson, the gentle, careful expression he loved was gone and in its place sat frustration. “Don’t
close me out, buddy. You need a friend right now. And I’m here. I’m your climbing partner.”

“Stop saying that. Stop saying you’re my climbing partner.”