The Quiet One

Eula Thompson's "The Quiet One" continues with Brothers. Here, Amanda continues to learn about her power and, as the chapter title would indicate, we meet her brothers.

     It wasn't long before I realized that I had seriously overreacted about Charlie coming to stay at the house. When he wasn't outside cleaning fish with my dad he was holed up in my former sewing room, working on his computer. So it was fairly easy to stay out of his way.
     The kids loved him. He was a math whiz and he helped them with their long division, and he showed them how to draw realistic 3-dimensional geometric shapes, and that was all they did for two days after that. They latched onto him immediately. I envied them their fearlessness, but I didn't have much of a desire to latch.
     After dinner on Wednesday, I was working on the pile of mending I had allowed to accumulate, got into a lull, lost in thought, and consequently didn't notice my father walking around, calling my name, until he passed between me and the overhead light. "Amanda?" he called. His eyes passed right over me, like I wasn't there at all.
     "I'm right here, Dad," I said.
     He gave a jump when he saw me. "Where'n hell did you come from?"
     "I've been right here for the past--" I looked at my watch, "--half hour."
     "I've been looking for you for ten minutes!"
     "I've been right here, Dad."
     He looked confused for a second, then shrugged and asked if his overalls were clean. That was the last time he mentioned the incident to me, but I could tell it disturbed him. Every so often that day I would catch him looking at me funny. Like I had done a magic trick and he couldn't figure out how I'd done it.

     On Friday, my three older brothers came to visit. They were naturally a rowdy bunch, and it was easy to get lost in the crowd of them. They surrounded us with rough hugs and loud greetings, and Nathan even lifted me up over his head for a second or two while I screamed, laughing, for him to put me down.
     They looked warily at Charlie Jones.
     Friday meant fish for dinner. We all ate way too much, but the catfish, the potatoes, the green beans, the carrots, all seemed to taste better in the company of my brothers, who we had sorely missed. We talked and laughed and joked over dinner, and my brothers dried and put away the dishes for me while I washed.
     After dinner I put on my jacket and walked to the store for a gallon of milk, because my brothers had slurped up the last drop over dinner, and the kids would want milk with their cookies at bedtime.
     I got in the line leading up to the counter, and a few people got in line behind me. I started thinking about Charlie Jones and how my brothers had looked at him like he was there to steal the silverware. I thought about a dress pattern I had that I wanted to try with a different kind of sleeve to see how it would look. I thought about my fingernails and whether I should paint them. I thought about school, and the history report that was due at the end of the next week that I still had yet to start. I thought about Christmas and whether I should ask Dad to get the kids a puppy. Maybe two puppies.
     I reached the counter and the guy behind me shoved right past me and put his stuff on the counter. The cashier started to ring the guy's things up. I was astonished at the rudeness of both the guy and the cashier. I cleared my throat and was ignored.
     The guy paid and left, and I tried to get to the front of the line and pay for my milk, but the teenage couple behind him pushed forward and paid for the condoms and whipped cream they were purchasing. Then the lady behind them paid for the gas she had just pumped. Then the old man behind her paid for a case of beer and a carton of cigarettes and bought a couple of lottery tickets.
     "Is it my turn yet?" I said finally, politely, when the old man had left and no one else was in line.
     The cashier blinked stupidly at me a couple of times. "How long have you been there?"
     I shrugged, my face burning, and put the milk on the counter, where it dripped condensation.
     "I'm sorry," the cashier said, bagging up the milk, "I just didn't even see you."
     "Don't you want me to pay you for that?"
     "Oh..." He had forgotten about that part, too. "No, just...its on me. I'm sorry about that."
     "Are you sure?" I said. I wouldn't argue too vehemently with him, as tight as money was in our house.
     "Yeah."
     "Well, thank you."
     I heard a vehicle pull up to the curb behind me on the road just as the milk was getting a bit heavy to carry. It was Charlie Jones.
     "You want a lift home?" he asked.
     Gratefully, I ducked into the truck and fastened my seat belt.
     We went along in silence for a moment. Then Charlie said, "I didn't start that fire."
     "What?"
     "I didn't start that fire. Bill Chambers didn't want to tell the insurance company about the exposed wiring in the plan room. Bill Junior brushed the metal end of one of those plan tubes against the wires, and there was some sparks and he got zapped, and some of those papers in there caught fire. I saved his life--" Charlie pulled over on the side of the road. "--for all the good it did me."
     "Where are you going?" I asked.
     Charlie stopped the truck, turned off the ignition and looked me right in the eyes. "I want to know what it is about you that makes people overlook you, Amanda. You stood in that store for a half an hour while that cashier ignored you. Why?"
     I hesitated. "I...didn't want to be rude," I said.
     "But why didn't he see you? It's not like you're easy to miss."
     He was right. Anyone as skinny as me with hair as blond as mine would be fairly conspicuous. "I don't know," I floundered.
     "How often does this happen to you, Amanda?"
     I got out of the truck, leaving the milk, and walked the rest of the way home.
     While I was walking, Charlie roared past me in his truck, and I caught a glimpse of his face as he passed. He looked upset. Angry. I didn't blame him.
     What was he implying? How often does this happen to me? Why?
     I got the feeling that I could have yelled and screamed until I turned blue, and the cashier wouldn't have seen me until all the other people had left.
     Why was Charlie watching me? Maybe he was keeping an eye out for me, making sure I was okay. Maybe not. Maybe just spying on me. Real mature. I arrived home in a grumpy mood and went to my room to sulk. Sure, it was stupid, but I was going to be a teenager for the rest of the year and felt entitled to some teen angst. I hauled my sewing machine and sewing table out of the closet and set them up at the foot of my bed. My machine was dusty and needed oil, but I didn't want to bother with that right then. I cut out the dress pattern in pale blue cotton and changed the sleeves a bit, and shortened the skirt. I stitched it all together on the machine. Sewing always makes me feel better. I like watching a tissue-paper pattern and a few yards of fabric turn into a dress or a shirt or whatever it is I'm making.
     It was a couple of hours later and I was just finishing up a complicated seam at the waist when Charlie knocked on the door.
     I would never have said, "Come in" if I had known it was Charlie, but I didn't know. I said it, and he came in, and I was too polite to tell him to go away. So I ignored him, hoping he would become uncomfortable and leave.
     No such luck.
     "What I said, in the truck," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you."
     "Then what did you mean to do?"
     Pause. Then, "I don't know."
     I finished the seam and touched up the hem a little bit.
     "I'd still be interested to know why people don't see you when they're concentrating on other things."
     "I'm quiet and shy and easy to overlook. So people don't always see me. That happens to a lot of people."
     "How long has it been happening to you? Your dad told me he walked right past you the other day, looking for you, and he didn't even see you until you said something."
     "What business is it of yours?" I snapped, my politeness a quart low.
     "You're scared, Amanda. You're scared it might be true."
     "And what makes you think it's a good idea to involve my Dad in this? You want to scare him, too?"
     "Then you admit you're scared?"
     Dang. Freudian slip. "I'm scared," I said slowly, "that my family will suffer if word gets around that you think I'm a psychic or something." I held the dress crumpled in my lap. Why did I keep making short little dresses anyway? I never wore anything shorter than knee-length outside the house.
     "What's your agenda in this?" I said to Charlie. "Why do you want to convince me that I'm a psychic?"
     "I just want to know what you honestly think."
     I paused. "I think...I'm easy to ignore. And people ignore me a lot."
     "You don't think you're at all out-of-the-ordinary?"
     "No," I lied.
     Charlie nodded. Before I could pull out of the way, he reached for my hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. Then he got up without another word and left the room.
     My brother John poked his head into the room just as Charlie was leaving. "You busy?" John asked.
     "No," I said.
     "Me and Nathan and Jacob called up Ben and George and some of the other guys from school, and we're all going out to the cabins for old times' sake. You want to come?"
     I looked at the pile of crumpled blue cotton in my lap. I got a strange idea.
     "Yeah," I said. "Let me change."

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