The Tiger Rising

Chapter 12

“We got to walk through the woods,” Rob said. He looked doubtfully at Sistine’s bright dress and shiny black shoes.

“You can give me some of your clothes to wear,” she told him. “I hate this dress, anyway.”

And so he took her to the motel room, and there, Sistine stood and stared at the unmade beds and the tattered recliner. Her eyes moved over his father’s gun case and then went to the macaroni pan from the night before, still sitting on the hot plate. She looked at it all the same way she had looked at the Kentucky Star sign and the motel and him, like she was trying to add it up in her head.

Then she saw his carvings, the little wooden village of odd things that he had made. He had them all on a TV dinner tray beside his bed.

“Oh,” she said — her voice sounded different, lighter — “where did you get those?”

She went and bent over the tray and studied the carvings, the blue jay and the pine tree and the Kentucky Star sign and the one that he was particularly proud of, his father’s right foot, life-size and accurate right down to the little toe. She picked them up one by one and then placed them back down carefully.

“Where did you get them?” she asked again.

“I made ’em,” said Rob.

She did not doubt him, as some people would. Instead, she said, “Michelangelo — the man who painted the Sistine ceiling — he sculpted, too. You’re a sculptor,” she said. “You’re an artist.”

“Naw,” said Rob. He shook his head. He felt a hot wave of embarrassment and joy roll over him. It lit his rash on fire. He bent and rubbed his hands down his legs, trying to calm them. When he straightened back up, he saw that Sistine had picked up the carving of her. He had left it lying on his bed, intending to work on it again in the evening.

He held his breath as she stared at the piece of wood. It looked so much like her, with her skinny legs and small eyes and defiant stance, that he was certain she would be angry. But once again she surprised him.

“Oh,” she said, her voice full of wonder, “it’s perfect. It’s like looking in a little wooden mirror.” She stared at it a minute more and then carefully laid it back on his bed.

“Give me some clothes,” she said, “and we’ll go see the tiger.”

He gave her a pair of pants and a T-shirt, and left the room and went outside to wait for her.

It was still raining, but not hard. He looked at the falling Kentucky Star. He thought for a minute about one of the not-wishes he had buried deepest: a friend. He stared at the star and felt the hope and need and fear course through him in a hot neon arc. He shook his head.

“Naw,” he said to the Kentucky Star. “Naw.”

And then he sighed and stuck his legs out into the rain, hoping to cool them off, hoping to get some small amount of relief.