By J Brown (copyrighted 1999)

"Shh, it’s here." The little girl was crouched in the corner of the room. She stood. "Come on Jeremy, it’s gone."

The two children walked outside into the backyard. The trees were just like they had been and the sky above the red-tiled house was huge. It was forever and youthful, a day that had no beginning or end.

"Do you see it?" She had always been strange but lately even more so. He wanted to be playing Over-The-Line down at the park with his friends but he was babysitting. He was twelve, barely old enough to be left alone himself but here he was forced to watch his little sister.

"No," she said, "let’s eat."

The terra cotta tile inside the kitchen was cool and felt good on their bare feet. Cynthia was wearing her fluorescent yellow and pink one piece bathing suit and Jeremy had his beige swim trunks on. It had been the summer of swimming, where any afternoon could erupt in the warm water when Mom would get home from work.

The two kids ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Jeremy with strawberry jam, and Cynthia with marmelade, the bitter kind. She held her cup with both hands and drank the cold mild thirstily.

"What time is it?"

"Twelve-oh-seven," he replied. Jeremy liked numbers and exactness. He liked cooking with his mom; he used the exact measurements and followed the recipes to a T.

"In the morning or night?"

"Day time, stupid."

"Hey," Cynthia said, pointing her half-eaten sandwich at him, "If I’m stupid, then you’re even stupider than me because you’re older."

"No," he retorted, "you get less stupid when you get older."

"Nuh uh," she said in the annoying tone she used when tattling. "Then how come when Suzie’s older sister comes over you act like you’re retarded."

"I don’t act retarded!"

"Yes you do. You chase her around and push her in the pool."

"I only did that once," he defended, "and she deserved it." Jeremy was throwing their paper plates in the trash under the sink and quickly washing the glasses out.

"Jeremy."

"What?"

"Why did Dad leave?"

He wasn’t really sure. He had heard his parents yelling a lot when he tried to sleep. It woke him up sometimes, but he only heard the raised voices, not the words. He was glad that Cynthia’s room was further away down the hall so she probably didn’t hear the arguments. "I don’t know," he said after a while. He grabbed some licorice from the cupboard. He handed some to her.

"Will he come Home?" she asked.

"I don’t think so, but he’s making a new home so we have two homes now."

"Why do we need two homes?"

"I don’t know." The two kids ate their red licorice and were quiet.

The phone rang.

"McLaughlin House," Jeremy answered. "Dad!"

"I want to talk to him," she told her older brother and tugged lightly at his shorts. He kept the receiver high from her reach and listened.

"Ok, ok, Dad, I love you too, ok, hold on. He wants to talk to you."

"Daddy," she exclaimed into the phone. "Yeah, Daddy. I’m having fun. We just had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. No silly," she said into the phone, "jeremy had strawberry and I had the orange one. When are you coming home, Daddy? Come on, when? Ok, I love you too, here’s Jeremy."

"All right, Dad," he said. He had become older in the last two months and he sort of felt like he was in charge of two women now, though he knew in his heart it was temporary.

"Jeremy like Suzie’s older sister! Jeremy likes Suzie’s older sister!" the young girl sang in an offbeat melody, dancing and smiling in the cool kitchen.

"No I don’t, you little dork! No Dad, I’m sorry Cynthia, you’re not a little dork. Ok Dad, I love you too, bye.
"You little dork, stop it." He held her arms forcefully together.

"Ow Jeremy, you’re hurting me."

And he let go. He had learned that that was a key phrase to him getting in trouble. Then they were just two kids in the kitchen, where it was cool and boring.

"Let’s turn the sprinklers on, and wait for Mom," Cynthia suggested, suddenly bouncing up and down.

"I wanna play Nintendo."

"Mom said Nintendo is for the winter time."

"So, I’m bored. I wanna play."

"Mom said that—"

"I know what she said." He could hear his mom’s voice. "All right," he said, "let’s go outside."

While his little sister jumped gleefully on the damp and soft warm grass, Jeremy threw a tennis ball against the garage and was pitching against the Cardinals, practicing his curveball. He was told he wasn’t allowed to throw curves until he was thirteen but that was only thirty-seven days away, he thought. That’s close enough. He threw the green furry ball against the garage again. It made a strange echoing sound each it time bounced off the large door.

"Jeremy!"

"What," he said without looking over at her.

"Jeremy!" she yelled again.

"What!" He looked over this time and she was standing amidst the sprinklers.

"Come play with me."

"I am," he said, throwing the ball again.

"No you’re not, you would be getting wet if you were playing with me."

"So."

"Jeremy!" she screamed.

"What!"

"Play with me."

He was looking at her. The tennis ball went past him and into the street. He went mindlessly after it. A car came around the corner and had to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting the Little Leaguer. It was an old lade that lived down the street.

"Watch out, Jeremy, I almost hit you," the old lady yelled as she sped past him, down to her house at the far, far end of the street.

"Jeremy!"

"What!" he yelled right back, walking back up to the mound.

"Come here, play with me," she commanded.

"All right," he said.

He went over to the hose and turned it on. Before she could stop dancing and notice what he was up to, a thick spurting stream from the hose was drenching Cynthia.

"Jeremy!"

"What, there now you can get really wet for both of us." He laughed at his sister. Her thick long blond hair was wet and matted down and she had the face of a dog thrown into the bathtub.

"I’m gonna tell Mom!"

"Tell her what? That you got wet when you went into the sprinklers?" He laughed and went back to his baseball game. It was the seventh inning stretch and he was pitching a shutout. The only hit he had given up was a double off the centerfield wall to Big Mac. But it was only a double. The count was oh and two to the batter.

"Jeremy," she said from his peripheral vision.

"Shh, I have to concentrate," he said, staring at the garage door for a sign from the catcher.

"Jeremy."

"And here’s the pitch," he was announcing. And in the middle of the wind up, the same spurt of water, though as not as controlled hit him in the face and neck and chest. He was immediately wet.

"You have a rain delay now," his sister said and giggled.

"Dammit, Cynthia," he said. "I’m pitching a shutout and you have to go and do something like this."

"Oooh, I’m telling Mom, you used a bad word."

"No I didn’t."

"You said ‘dammit’," the seven-year old said.

"There," he laughed, "you can’t tell now because you said it too."

"But I was only copying you."

"So, you said it."

"It’s different."

"Not to Mom it isn’t," he said, rolling up the green hose.

She knew he was right. "Ok, let’ call it even. I won’t tell and neither will you."

The two children did the special handshake they had learned at summer camp the previous summer. That was when their Dad had still lived at him, but there were still the bathing suits and sprinklers, and shut outs. The only difference was they had two homes now, thought they didn’t really understand what that meant and neither did their parents.