Loving the Clouds

Chapter 6

I am not rich.

Though people believe I am. My house is white-washed, standing a proud two stories above ground level, matched with a dark shade of brown wood roofing as well as flooring. In it, we have two spare bedrooms, three bathrooms, two TVs, three rooms designated for entertainment, a kitchen, a living room, laundry room, and a double garage which was attached to the side of the house. Our front lawn is very small as well as our backyard, surrounded by an aesthetically-appealing white fence, the back bordering along the woods. A small, worn path leads out onto the running trail, a path I made some years back to gain access to the trail. All we are missing is a pool.

Everett, on the other hand, is not.

Even though all I can see is the outside of his house, it is enough to tell me how poorly his economy is doing. It is a small brown bungalow, only one story,with patched black shingles paired with a light wood siding. The windows that, I assumed, used to be white we're now a faded beige colour, the glass slightly foggy from many years of collecting dust and dirt. A rusted red swing set lay abandoned and leaning up against the front corner of his house, one of the two swings having broken off long ago. He has no garage, leaving the beat-up red Chevy sitting idly in their short driveway. The black mailbox that rests at the end of the property is bulging with unpaid bills and a build-up of out-dated newspaper. I never see the mysterious aunt and uncle leave the house. Come to think of it, I have never seen them in a very long time.

It was not always this way, with that house. Now and then, I recall the times back when I was a child that the house was buzzing with activity. I would go outside to play and there would be a barbecue in full swing across the road. Many people from the street visited them, my mother included. My father would always hang back with me, amusing me by going along with my childish games, but I'd see him watching from afar.

I even remember that day when my mother got a phone call.

It was from the aunt, Naomi was her name. While they were not high school buddies, Naomi worked with my mom and they were friends. My mother cried that day. She told me Naomi's sister and brother-in-law had died. Of course, being a child of nine at the time, I had no idea what that meant. But I did notice a change there. It had sobered up, ceasing the Sunday parties and late night BBQ's. I met the new boy once, when my parents took me over to console the family. He was silent. Never uttered a word. I did not know his cousin well, and he did not talk to me either. The sun was out that day, I remember. It was beautiful.

With age, I learned some things. One, that the uncle, Marcus, was good friends with Everett's father, Daniel. They had been partners in some fancy business of theirs and the weight of it crashed on Marcus's shoulders when his partner died. And two, that Naomi quit her job. She had fallen into a depression of sorts, for Everett's mother was her twin.

Mom and Naomi fell out of contact. Their doors shut and did not open. They had closed contact with the neighbours. They were not seen around town. Their son was still the ever-cheerful, arrogant blond athlete as usual, as he was young and could not begin to comprehend what had occurred. Though the nephew, little Everett, was wise for his age. He knew.

These details came to me along the way, as I began to open my eyes to the life of the cloud-eyed boy. I recalled eavesdropped conversations on my parents, words that only started to make sense now. I would be woken up at night by the slamming of a car door and the tall shadow lumbering to the door across the road, mindless babble carried across to my open window. Then there was the sag of the boy's shoulders when he believed no one was watching, so much pain in his eyes one might think the stars had fallen out of the sky. It hurt him, but it hurt me more to watch it.

It is times like that when I wish I could just walk up to him and hug him. Wrap my arms around his broken form and tell him it is alright. That it will always be alright. But of course, that would be a lie, wouldn't it? Nothing will be alright. It may get better, but I do not believe for a second it will ever be alright.