By Margaret M. Byrne
Featured Art: “While Shadows Sleep” by Edward Supranowicz

Piggot’s Point, May 11, 1975

Nothing ever snuck in through the second-story window at 333 North Bollingbrook, the foster home owned by the Grimmer sisters, Lucy, Lila and Lily, who swore on the Bible to care for “them poor motherless boys” at the price of one thousand and sixteen dollars per boy per month, “and worth every penny as boys eat so much and are so much work and d’ey got so much boy dirt and da price of food has gone up so much—and all d’em city fees.” Paid with a bank deposit by the Commonwealth—always on the first.

Nothing found its way through the crack in the two-over-two window, shut tighter than Miss Lucy’s lady parts. Not a bird. Not a moth. Not a squirrel or a mouse or a cat. Not even a skeeter.

Nothin’.

Until tonight.

A faint tapping began on the right lower pane of the only window in the tiny bedroom of Dwade Ian Gorte—otherwise known as “Digger.”

The boy was alone in the room. It was the first time he’d ever been just by himself. Two weeks earlier Digger’s roommate, Allen Slocum, had aged out, left on the day of his eighteenth birthday with a “God I hate this place” farewell.

The ten-year-old lay near naked on the perspiration-soaked sheet when his toes began thumping to the tapping sound at the window. His fingers joined in. Dum-dum-dum duddleee-um. Not in unison—in syncopation.

He threw back the sheet, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Dum-dum-dum duddleee-um.


                       *

Digger’s body had always had a mind of its own. His fingers and toes often chose not to work in unison. When he was little, he cried and talked and cried and talked though he didn’t know why. He said things out loud when no one wanted to listen. They would turn to him and say straight up, “Digger, shut the fuck up. Stop talkin’.” But Digger kept talking—at least to himself. Somethin’s at the window. Tryin’ to get in. Dum-dum-dum duddleee-um.

                       *

The window, tall and with sheer curtains hanging part way down, sat only a few feet from his bed. He wiped his face and chest with his T-shirt, already damp from the swollen air.

Maybe it’s a bird, a lost baby bird.

If he squinted, Digger could make out through the curtains the crack in the window. It had been there since he had moved in six months ago, after Thanksgiving. Now it was May and they were having a heat wave—the kind only central Virginia had—ninety degrees and ninety percent humidity.

Twist-lock-click. Twist-lock-click.

Every night at eight o’clock Miss Lila locked all the doors to all the boys’ rooms. The house front door was locked at 4:30. All the windows sealed tight. “Cain’t have someone comin’ in hurtin’ our precious angels now, can we?” Miss Lucy had cooed.

Think we don’t know ya’ll lyin’? Don’t give a fuck ‘bout us? He bobbed his head back and forth three times the way he always did and then stood.

                       *

When Allen had the bed in the opposite corner, every single day he’d yell at Digger, “Why ya’ll got to be movin’ all da time?” or “Who ya’ll talkin’ to? Stop talkin’.”

At first Digger tried to explain, but he only talked more and faster and sometimes about nothing at all. Words tumbling out. He’d push his hands deep into his pockets so that Allen couldn’t see them twitching and fiddling.

Yet somehow, Allen sensed Digger’s nervous moving. Allen knew. And then he’d shout at the top of his lungs so everyone in the house could hear him, “A hundred and twenty-three days. Only a hundred and twenty-three more days!”

Digger’s older brother, Louis Gorte Junior, asked him once, “Why do ya’ll need to run your mouth all the time? People are goin’ to think ya’ll’s weird.”

He thought about it. Lots. “It’s like one of them tea kettles. It’s gotta whistle. You know?”

Louis said that was okay, but Digger had to zip it “so’s people won’t call ya’ll crazy and send you to Bellefield.”

Digger would—most of the time. Well, sometimes. But never for long.

Last thing Digger wanted was folks thinking he was weird.

In the distance St. James’s church bells chimed twelve.

The bottoms of his feet dripped as he stepped to the window. The floor traced his wet footprints as he pulled back the curtain, leaned in close, his eyes a few inches from the crack in the glass.

What little light came from the moon had disappeared. Digger looked out across the top of the dead crabapple tree, its gnarled trunk stooped with rot. No light came from a boarded-up brick building across the street. The traffic signal at the corner had been shot out long ago.

He didn’t dare switch on the overhead as one of the sisters would be down the hall with a “Why ya’ll be turnin’ on da light? Think we millionaires? Turn off da light.”

A swooshing sound came from outside.

The tapping at the window stopped.

A shadow lifted away into the night.

It’s a twig. A teeny twig. He put his finger against the glass. It’s part of a leaf. That stem thing. Runs up the center. It was halfway through the crack, but not all the way. “What’re ya’ll doin’ here? How’d ya’ll get through? Nothin’ gets through,” he said to the twig.

Digger touched the end of the leaf stem. It wasn’t hard and sharp at all. It was soft and new. He could feel his hands again on his mama’s shoulders. All skin and bone. An injured dove. Come on, Ma. Get up. She was still warm. He ran his forefinger along the stem to where it came through the crack in the window. He felt around the opening. No air came through. Just stem and glass. He put his thumb and forefinger around the twig, grabbed hold ever so gently.

“Dwade! Stop!” He heard again his older brother yelling at him that night. Louis had grabbed Digger from behind. Pushed him out the door. “Go get Miss Elissa. Call an ambulance!”

“Is she okay?” Digger had stumbled back as his brother leaned down over their ma. “She’s not moving. We have to wake her.”

“Hurry!” Louis had raised his voice. His older brother never raised his voice.

Digger let go of the little leaf stem. Backed away and stared at reflected shards of moonlight on the window.

I knew you weren’t okay, Ma. Digger couldn’t stop seeing the yellow drool all dried and cracked on his mama’s lips. She wasn’t moving. The ugly pink and black floor tiles, the dirty spoon, the needle, the 35 cent Bic lighter. Beads of sweat on her face. The rattling noise from the ceiling fan blasting hot air. Stifling hot. I knew.

                       *

Digger wiped the sweat from his palms onto his T-shirt, stepped closer to the window, leaned down and pulled the little leaf the rest of the way through.

As he did so, he heard a loud crack. His hands shot up as if to stop the window from breaking. “Oh shit Oh shit Oh shit Miss Lila’s goin’ to kill me.” Fractures shot one way and then another, turning the pane of glass into a spider web of dark glistening fissures.

Then just as suddenly they stopped. A piece of glass in the shape of a crescent moon, or maybe a smile, dropped. Quick, Digger caught it in his right hand and held his breath. For once he stood perfectly still, sure that at any moment the whole window would crash to the floor in a thousand pieces and all three sisters would be standing over him piling on more accusations than anyone could ever answer. Not that he had an answer.

But it didn’t.

Instead, through the bits of missing glass came a cool night breeze. It washed into his eyes and nose and mouth—a gush of soft kisses. He turned his face and stretched out his neck so that the air could curl around his ear and sweep across his skin—his neck, shoulders, and chest. He breathed in. “Mmmm.” The air tasted a bit salty and sweet like the vanilla ice cream they made down at The Dixie. Stuff he could smell but was never permitted to taste.

The words in his head stopped. His toes didn’t tap. His hands didn’t fidget.

Then “chink chink.” Another shard fell into his hand, then a third and a fourth.

“Wait. Wait . . . wait.”

The falling glass stopped.

Digger pulled off his T-shirt and held it out to catch any more. All in a whoosh, a ripple of spider glass dropped into his waiting T-shirt.

Fresh air billowed into the room.

He clutched the glass as the wind hurled the curtains up to the ceiling, swirled across Allen’s old bed, blew back around and under Digger’s bed, spread across the floor, plowed into the sheets, circled one more time and then rushed into him—his mouth, his throat and down deep, deep inside.

                       *

The floor was now dry under Digger’s feet.

He stared at the unbroken upper panes and waited. A bunch of leaves pushed through the bottom half of the window. He could hear rustling and creaking, ghost owls calling and the rumble of a train in the distance. He could no longer see out across the street to the low brick building. The crabapple, whose branches could barely reach the porch roof, was now gone, replaced by a big tree, all green and crowded with leaves.

That’s not right.” This is some other tree. He touched its leaves. They were soft and cool and smelled sort of like fish. He pushed through the foliage and twisted his head to look up. This tree was enormous—taller than the house
itself.

The boy imagined himself crawling out the window, swinging himself over to a branch, climbing down the trunk and running across the lawn away free into the night.

A cold thrill ran up his legs. I could go . . . wherever I want.

But then he pictured the sisters with their gangly legs and wide feet clomping down the halls, the rancid odor of old cocoa butter in their hair, their noses into everything, their eyes everywhere. They’ll find out. Goosebumps prickled up his neck and ran down along his arms.

But. What if they don’t?

                       *

The Grimmer sisters kept between eight and ten boys. Eight boys shared the blistering attic on the third floor. The second floor had four bedrooms, three—one for each of the sisters—and the smallest bedroom where Digger and a roommate slept. Not a window was open anywhere in the house. The first floor that should have been cooler wasn’t. Other folks opened their windows, let in the cool night air; but not the sisters. When Digger and Louis lived with their mama over on Liberty Place they always had their windows open.

But not the sisters.

Digger remembered asking his brother, “Why can’t we leave, Louis? Walk out the front door and never come back? How come?”

“We gotta follow the rules, Digger,” his brother’s words a whisper. “Like Mama always said.”

“But what if we don’t?”

Louis, six years older, was a whole lot bigger. Fullback bigger. He slept downstairs in what was sometimes called a playroom, which wasn’t a playroom at all since there were no toys, no games, no television, and as soon as anyone made any noise, one of the sisters hollered, “Shh. Quiet. No talkin’ in da library.” Except it wasn’t a library either because it had no books but the Mormon Bible, which Miss Lily had pilfered from the Hotspot Motel.

Too big for a normal bed, Louis slept on the pink-and-chartreuse plaid couch, which Miss Lila had covered with black plastic garbage bags to keep it clean from “boy dirt.” The couch sagged under Louis’ weight. His feet hung over the end. Worse was what the humidity had trapped in the garbage bags covering the couch. A thin layer of green and yellow mold was growing under the sheets, working its way down to the pink and chartreuse polyester plaid.

When Louis questioned the sisters’ rules, it was always the same. “You so lucky, Louis, to have a home with us,” Miss Lila would say. “Wouldn’t want to ruin d’at now, would ya’ll?”

Digger remembered the time Louis asked, “Please, Miss Lily, can’t we do our own laundry? Dwade and me, we only got two T-shirts, two jeans, two you know, underwear. Need to wash ’em. We’ll do it ourselves. Just one load. On a Wednesday night? To get off the, you know, boy dirt? Please?” Miss Lily’s lips would go all tight and then she’d smile—a sneer-smile. “Ya’ll know how often d’ey rip families apart, Louis? But we asked special just cuz we know how important it is to keep siblin’s together. You so lucky we lookin’ after ya’ll.”

Louis would nod. They’d turn their underwear inside out and wear it a second time. Sometimes a third. Digger knew his brother. He would ask—he would. Once or twice maybe. But when no one listened to him, he’d go along. Louis had tried to fight, in the court, on the Monday after Thanksgiving six months ago—on the Thursday their ma died in the pink bathroom on the floor next to the toilet when she said she was going to make a real Thanksgiving for them. All together. Same as other families. Cook a turkey. Except she didn’t. She went into the bathroom and stayed there an awful long time. Too long.

The judge, his skin the color of a vanilla cream glaze on a Krispy Kreme donut, had asked Louis if he had anything he wanted to say before turning the boys over to the Grimmer sisters.

Louis tried. Digger knew his brother tried.

“I’m almost eighteen. I can get a job,” Louis had pleaded. “I can take good care of us. Just need a couple days to find a job. If you could wait some, Your Honor?”

“You’re not going on eighteen, now are you, Louis?” said the judge. The vanilla glaze shimmered. “You’re going on sixteen.”

“Yes, Your Honor. But I can still do it. I’m big for my age. I’m doing good in school. If you took even half the money you’re giving to that group home, and gave it to us instead? Please, Your Honor. Give us a chance.”

But he didn’t.

And Louis went along.

When Digger asked his brother why he didn’t fight harder, Louis said, “No point in fightin’ a battle ya’ll know you cain’t win.”

And that was that.

Except it wasn’t.

                       *

Digger put the make-do satchel with all the glass on the chair. He sat down on the bed, opened the palm of his right hand and looked at the glassy bits and theleaf stem. He closed his hand. They didn’t break his skin.

He faced the window and let the cool air wash through him. He sat there for a very long time. Then Digger put the four pieces of glass and leaf stem under his pillow. Cain’t tell anyone. Not even Louis. He laid his head back and let himself sink into the soft cushion. It wasn’t soggy with damp anymore.

Do what I want. His fingers traveled over the now dry sheets. They’d never felt so soft and smelled so clean. “Louis won’t come with me. He’ll stay here forever.”

That’s not true. He just thinks we can never win.

Digger’s body was still, calm.

Maybe I could fix it. So it looks closed. But I can open it. Go to Southern Hardware. He’d never been inside Southern Hardware, but he knew one of the boys from school had a grandfather who worked there. He knew where it was on South Street.

“I’ll tell him I’ll sweep, take out trash—anything—for a pane of glass. I’ll put that putty stuff in. Take it out every night. I’ll lie.”

He pulled the sheet up over him. “Damn, this feels good.”

And he fell into a deep sleep.

                       *

After school ended at 3:15, Digger ran all the way to Southern Hardware. He had barely an hour to figure out how to fix the window so he could open and close it and arrive back at the house by 4:30 when Miss Lila locked the front and back doors. He couldn’t be late or Miss Lily would take him aside and ask where he’d been and what he’d been doing and he would say what he usually said, which was that he’d gone back to the rooming house on Liberty Place where they lived with their mama and daddy before he went off and died in some war.

The call to breakfast—an angry buzzer—sounded from downstairs. Digger started awake. “Shit! The window!” When he looked over, all the glass was back in the right lower pane except for a hole the size of a half dollar. He pulled back the pillow. Together the four glass pieces formed the missing hole. Next to the glass sat the leaf stem. The bits he’d left on the chair were gone. As if none of it had happened.

He threw on clothes and stuffed the glass pieces and leaf stem in his pocket. In his whole life he’d never slept so well. He went to the window and touched the glass. “Thank you.”

                       *

After school ended at 3:15, Digger ran all the way to Southern Hardware. He had barely an hour to figure out how to fix the window so he could open and close it and arrive back at the house by 4:30 when Miss Lila locked the front and back doors. He couldn’t be late or Miss Lily would take him aside and ask where he’d been and what he’d been doing and he would say what he usually said, which was that he’d gone back to the rooming house on Liberty Place
where they lived with their mama and daddy before he went off and died in some war.

A pitiless expression would cross her face. “Forward, Dwade. Cain’t relive the past.”

He hated it when Miss Lily pulled him aside.

Digger had never been inside any sort of hardware store, but he was pretty sure this was where he’d find what he needed, or at least someone who could tell him. The name, “Southern Hardware,” was painted in big black letters on the two-story brick building located on the corner of South and Low Streets right across from Billy’s Barber Shop. The brick was painted a light mustard color. Metal security bars safeguarded what had once been windows that were now boarded over with heavy sunbaked plywood.

Dusty pickups crowded the parking lot. No trees. No plants. No pots. Nothing but dirt and a heavy entry door that stood open.

From inside, the sound of a fan drifted out into the parking lot.

One man went in. Two men came out. Jeans, work boots, tool belts. Rough hands, muscled arms. They walked right past Digger, who stood in the afternoon sun about six feet from the entrance. No one noticed him.

His toes started to tap inside his sneakers. He rocked forward onto his right foot and then back to his left. His fingers curled and uncurled. He stuck his hands down inside his jeans and then pulled them out again. Should I go inside Go to the counter. Rock forward. Rock back.

I have to do something. I’ll be late gettin’ back.

“What ya’ll doin’ standin’ there? Ya’ll goin’ in or what?” The man who did finally notice him wore gray sweatpants, a gray T-shirt with a black baseball cap with the silver letter “G” embroidered on the front. Nike running shoes. And seriously radical aviator shades. Mirrored ones.

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.” Digger couldn’t tell the man’s age. He wasn’t young and he wasn’t old, at least not super-old.

“Well, what is it? Yes or no?” He lowered his shades and made an odd clicking sound.

Words ricocheted through Digger’s head, but all he could see was the man’s jet-black eyes. They were as shiny as fine obsidian buttons. They weren’t normal eyes—at least none Digger had ever seen. They had no pupils. The tiniest star seemed to float in each eye. Digger had never seen such eyes. Amazing eyes.

“What’s your name, boy?” He clicked his tongue again.

“Digger, sir?”

“That a question or an answer?” The man cocked his head with a quick jerk. It reminded Digger of what he’d seen crows do when they’d gotten hold of a peanut.

“Dwade, sir. Dwade Gorte.” Don’t stare. But Digger did. He kept looking at the man’s eyes.

“Ya’ll been standin’ for more than a half-hour out here, Mister Dwade Gorte.” His head jolted to the side, his expression curious.

“Just Digger.”

“Digger. Must want somethin’?” He leaned down and studied the boy’s face.

“Want to open a window. Fix a window, I mean. A broken window.” As he looked at the man’s strange eyes, Digger noticed that the stars in his eyes stayed towards the top directly below the center of the eyelid.

“Why can’t ya’ll open this broken window?”

“Don’t know, sir. Closed. Tight so’s . . . just can’t open it.”

“Glass broken or the wood? Is it painted shut?”

Digger thought about that. The Grimmer sisters’ house had paint peeling everywhere and raw wood showing. “Don’t think so. There’s a teeny hole in the glass.”

“Window nailed shut?” The man’s eyebrows arched and he cocked his head. Digger could see now that the stars barely moved.

Maybe. “All I know is can’t open any of the windows.”

“Why? Make sure no one gets in or no one gets out?”

“Both, I guess.”

“You one of them foster boys live over on—”

Digger cut him off. “Yes. Like to die it’s so hot. Don’t even give us a fan.”

“All right.” The man pulled from his pocket a small pad of paper and a pencil and then stopped. “Of course, can’t really say without seein’ it. Ain’t got something else planned, now do you, Digger?”

“No, sir.”

The man tapped the pencil against the pad several times and then drew a window. “Well, supposin’ . . . window’s nailed shut.”

The man in gray labeled the parts of the window: the frame, the sill, the casing and rails. He drew a circle around a part of the casing. He held the drawing close so that Digger could see and then tapped his pencil at parts of the picture. “If ya’ll look here or here, you might see a metal head of a nail. Remove the nails and you can open and close that window all you want. Take your measurements and ya’ll can replace the glass.”

“How do you remove the nails?”

The man slipped the pad and pencil into his pocket, cocked his head again and whistled long and low. “A hammer, of course.”

“A hammer?”

“Yes, the claw of a hammer.” The man held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Ain’t ya’ll never used a hammer?”

“No, sir.” He knew what a claw was, but the claw on a hammer—he had no idea. “But I’m sure I can find one. I can learn.”

The man stopped. “Got any money to buy a hammer?”

Digger stopped, too. “No, sir. I can work. Every day after school. How much do they cost?”

The man pushed his aviator sunglasses back on and then changed direction and walked instead to a silver-gray convertible parked in front of the hardware store. He popped the trunk. It had a black top and black interior. Digger didn’t recognize the make. He thought he knew all the names, at least for the cool cars. Like the man in gray with his strange star eyes, this was a cool one.

When his mama was still alive, he and Louis would go and sit on a bench near Jefferson Highway and watch for muscle cars—look for the ponies—the Chevrolet Corvette Stingray that could do an output of 360 horsepower or the Ford Mustang, preferably 1964, or Louis’ favorite, the Fleetwood Brougham. But this one Digger had never seen before. The hood ornament was some sort of bird. Not an eagle and not the Chevrolet jet bird. This had a curved beak with raised wings similar to the crows that crowded the stands of loblolly pines along River Road.

The man handed Digger a tool with a wooden handle, the color of mayonnaise, silky smooth to the touch.

“That’s a hammer?” asked Digger.

“Not any hammer. Made of hornbeam. Special.” He tossed Digger a measuring tape.

The boy caught it.

“You can borrow them.”

“Really? I’ll bring ‘em back tomorrow. I promise.”

Then he stopped, bobbed his head at the boy. “No. Keep ’em.” He got into the convertible and drove away.

Digger stood in the dust of the parking lot with his fist tight around the handle of the hammer. “Thank you. Thank you very much, sir.” And he took off racing to get back before the sisters locked up.

                       *

Miss Lila leaned over the porch railing and yelled, “Dwade Gorte! Where ya’ll been? It’s 4:26. D’ey keep ya’ll after school? Git into trouble again? Everyone lookin’ for ya’ll. Git in here, boy.”

Digger defied Miss Lila. Instead he ran to the side yard to check on the tree that was no longer the crabapple tree but some other tree—a much bigger tree with long fuzzy yellow catkins. The hammer in his right jeans pocket weighed against him, the cold of the claw pushed up under his T-shirt. The measuring tape sat in his left pocket, along with the bits of glass and leaf stem.

Leaning against the side of the house, butting onto Digger’s bedroom window sill, was a paint-spattered ladder. A workman in overalls and a cap started down with his toolbox.

The window now had narrow planks of wood nailed across the bottom half of it.

“Hey! Why’d ya’ll board over that window?” Digger ran to the workman.

The man ignored him as he worked his way down and stepped off the last rung of the ladder. He collapsed the extension on the ladder. Then he picked it up in one hand and with his tool box in the other, he walked towards a white Dodge pickup parked in front of the house.

Digger followed after him. “Hey, Mister? Why’d you board over my window?”

“Dwade Gorte! Inside! Right now!” Miss Lila screamed. “Don’t ya’ll be makin’ me wait!”

“Your window? Best get your butt inside, boy.”

“It was just a little hole.” A perfect little hole.

“New boy comin’. With that big hornbeam and all them leaves, goin’ to be harder to fix. Go on now.”

“Not another minute!” she hollered.

“What kind of tree did ya’ll say it is? A hornbeam?”

“Yup. Nothin’ better for makin’ ladders, tools. Last forever. I’ll git that window fixed tomorrow. Good as new.” The workman took his tools and left. Digger turned back and stared at his boarded-up window. I don’t want it good as new.

And so he returned to the sweltering house, its air thick with the smell of boy dirt.


                       *

The water pipes were so warm the shower water wasn’t cold. Within fifteen minutes Digger was sweating again.

After dinner, which was always precisely at six, and cleanup, which lasted until seven, Digger paused on the staircase and watched his brother.

“You okay?” Louis asked.

“I’m okay.” Digger just looked at his brother. Cain’t tell anyone. Not even Louis.

“You sure?”

Digger nodded and went upstairs to his room. He closed his bedroom door, walked to the window and touched the glass. “Hello. How ya’ll been?”

One of the sisters, probably Miss Lila on her morning room inspections, had found and covered the hole with masking tape that now curled at the edges from heat. “Of course she found it.” Cain’t keep any secrets from them sisters.

He knew he should wait until eight when Miss Lila locked them all in, but he was too excited. He pulled off the masking tape. “I’m sorry they did this to you.” He stuck it to the sill. “Better?”

Air began to flow through the hole. Clean and fresh.

Bright green leaves pushed against the upper half of the window.

“Ya’ll’s a hornbeam. Right? What did you do to the crabapple? How’d ya’ll get here?” He got no answer. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re here.”

He pulled aside the curtains and examined the sashes and the casing. They were just as the man had said. A nail head on each side and painted over with nothing to notice unless you knew to look for them. Digger pulled out the hammer, positioned the claw under the edge of the nail head and pried it back. The nail squealed as it came part way out.

Digger held his breath, whipped around to face the door. He crouched down, slid the hammer under the bed and then stood and waited for Miss Lila to come storming in.

But she didn’t.

He tiptoed to the door, opened it and looked out. All quiet. He returned to the window. This time he wadded up his T-shirt over the nail so as to mute the sound. Three more tugs and the nail slid out.

“Yes!” He twirled around, raised his arms into the air as if he’d scored the winning basket. He removed the nail on the other side and did another victory dance. Who’s the man?! Who’s the man? Yay, Digger! He jiggled the frame to loosen it and then carefully lifted the bottom half, with the hole still in it, up past the boards the workman had nailed to the outside. “Please don’t break,” he whispered.

It didn’t.

Then. Twist-lock-click. From the attic came the sounds of locks clicking into place. Eight o’clock. Miss Lila’s footsteps came stomping down the hallway.

Digger held his breath.

But Miss Lila didn’t come in.

Twist-lock-click. His bedroom door once again secured. He waited. Just to be sure. He climbed onto the chair and jiggled the upper window that was not boarded over. He slid it down. As soon as he did, the tree branch swept into the room nearly knocking the boy off the chair. He grabbed for the window rail and steadied himself.

“Oh yes. There you are.”

The wind rushed through the room cooling everything it touched. The leaves swept soft caresses across his face and neck.

“I missed you, too.”

The boy stepped from the chair onto the window sill. A thrill bolted up his legs, spread across his chest. He was suddenly giddy, light-headed. “I could swing my leg over them boards. Grab onto that branch. Go out. No one would say, ‘What ya’ll been doin’? What trouble ya’ll git into? Ya’ll cain’t be wanderin’ around.’” I could do it. As long as I’m back for breakfast call.

Digger’s shoulders and chest relaxed. He felt lighter all over.

When he pulled the curtain away so he could look out through the top half of the window, his breath stopped. The hornbeam was big and full of stars. Lit up like a Christmas tree. The night air smelled of autumn and woodsmoke and hot chocolate. Like that night Digger watched his mama and daddy dancing in the kitchen—the night before he left.

                       *

Hanging from the branches were hundreds of tiny, neatly wrapped bundles that glowed from within. Dried twigs and leaves, little cocoons, with miniscule stars inside. They covered the hornbeam. They chimed and rustled in the breeze. They were more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen.

Digger stopped talking. He reached out and touched a leaf. It wrapped around his hand, gentle and cool. He stood there holding leaves with the hornbeam until the moon filled the night sky and he grew sleepy.

The boy crawled into his bed and stared over at what used to be Allen’s bed. Digger liked having the room all to himself. No one watching him, yelling at him. He could talk all he wanted. Or not at all.

“New boy’s coming. Might be here tomorrow. Then what will we do?”

The hornbeam listened.

He lay back on the cool sheets and he slept.

                       *

When Digger woke it was still dark, but his room was full of stars. Tiny silver and gold stars sparkled and moved. The whole room glowed the color of new leaves. Something was tickling his face. Tender nips, gentle suction cups lifted and dropped and then lifted again as they moved softly along his neck. He touched it and heard a cry.

“I’m sorry.” With his fingers he picked up the soft squishy thing. It was a caterpillar about the length of his index finger—a bright green caterpillar with a dozen or so stars, bright, all over its back. “Hello.”

Caterpillars, thousands of them, covered the walls, the bed, the ceiling. He turned his head ever so slightly. They were on his pillow and on the sheets. Their floral scent filled the room. They were coming from the chiming, lantern-lit tree.

“I’m going to sit up. Okay? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

He moved very slowly. He lifted the sheet and blanket. He let the green caterpillars crawl to the edge of the bed. He put his big toe onto the floor.

The caterpillars moved away making a space for Digger to put both feet down and stand. He picked up the few caterpillars still clinging to him and placed them carefully onto the bed sheet. “Who are you? What are ya’ll doin’ here? If the sisters see you . . . ” He didn’t want to think what they would do with their mops and brooms and bleach spray bottles. “This is dangerous. Ya’ll can’t stay here.”

They parted to make a path for him to move towards the chair by the window. The starry caterpillars moved with him. They crawled up the wall to the top half of the window and then just as they reached the window rail, they transformed. The caterpillars launched themselves up onto their hind legs, threw off a paper-thin covering, shiny and green, thrust out their antennae and wings and shook with a great ruffle.

As they fluffed themselves, they became giant moths as big as his hand, the colors of sunset, orange-rose and gold, with two eyes on their lower wings. They flew out and up into the tree.

“Whoa!” Digger stood motionless.

They fluttered and whirled. Thousands of them. They filled the sky with their midnight blue eyes. One last moth paused on the window rail. She turned and looked at him. She reminded him of one of those fancy girls he’d seen on his mama’s magazine covers. She was cloaked in soft reddish-brown fur, all fuzzy-soft legs and arms as if dressed from head to toe in mink. Her antennae formed a sort of giant hat, a glittery gold bow with two loops fanning out on each side. She blinked at him as if to say, “Come on then. Come with us.” She lifted her mottled wings and launched into the night.

“Wait! Where are you going? Wait for me!” Digger grabbed the hammer and tape and climbed onto the sill. He swung into the tree. As he grabbed hold of the hornbeam’s branch, Digger knew he was going to go up—and he was never coming back down. Not even for Louis.

And so the boy climbed, branch to branch, followed the hornbeam’s ladder and disappeared into the stars.

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Margaret Byrne spent more than twenty years in the film industry in various capacities including story editing, screenwriting, and film conservation. In 1999 she moved to a small town in central Virginia, where she lived for twenty years. She currently resides in Los Angeles.