Free The Tiger Rising by Kate DiCamillo Page A

lighter, as if he had set something heavy down and walked away from it, without bothering to look back.

That night, his father sang to Rob as he put the medicine on his legs. He sang the song about mining for gold, the one that he used to sing with Rob’s mother. When he was done with the medicine and the song, he cleared his throat and said, “Caroline loved that song.”
    “Me too,” Rob told him. “I like it too.”
    His father stood up. “You’re going to have to tell Beauchamp that you was the one that let that tiger go.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Rob.
    “I’ll tell him I was the one who shot him, but you got to admit to letting him go.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Rob again.
    “I might could lose my job over it,” his father said.
    “I know it,” Rob told him. But he wasn’t afraid. He thought about Beauchamp’s shaking hands. Beauchamp was the coward. He knew that now. “I thought I would tell him I could work for him to pay for what I done.”
    “You can offer him up some reasonable kind of solution,” said his father, “but it don’t mean he’ll go for it. There ain’t no predicting Beauchamp. Other than to say he’s going to be mad.”
    Rob nodded.
    “And on Monday,” his father continued, “I aim to call that principal and tell him you’re going back to school. I ain’t messing around with taking you to more doctors. You’re going back and that’s that.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Rob. He didn’t mind the thought of going back to school. School was where Sistine would be.
    His father cleared his throat. “It’s hard for me to talk about your mama. I wouldn’t never have believed that I could miss somebody the way I miss her. Saying her name pains me.” He bent his head and concentrated on putting the cap on the tube of medicine. “But I’ll say it for you,” he said. “I’ll try on account of you.”
    Rob looked at his father’s hands. They were the hands that had held the gun that shot the tiger. They were the hands that put the medicine on his legs. They were the hands that had held him when he cried. They were complicated hands, Rob thought.
    “You want some macaroni and cheese for dinner?” his father asked, looking back up at Rob.
    “That sounds all right,” said Rob. “Macaroni and cheese sounds real good.”
    That night, Rob dreamed he and Sistine were standing at the grave of the tiger. They were watching and waiting. He didn’t know for what. But then he saw a flutter of green wings and he understood. It was the wooden bird, only he wasn’t made of wood, he was real. And he flew up out of the tiger’s grave, and they chased him, laughing and bumping into each other. They tried to catch him. But they couldn’t. The bird flew higher and higher until he disappeared into a sky that looked just like the Sistine ceiling. In his dream, Rob stood and stared up at the sky, admiring all the figures and the colors, watching as the bird disappeared into them.
    “See?” said Sistine in his dream. “I told you it was like fireworks.”
    He woke up smiling, staring at the ceiling of the motel room.
    “Guess what?” his father called to him from outside.
    “What?” said Rob back.
    “There ain’t a cloud in the sky,” said his father, “that’s what.”
    Rob nodded. He lay in bed and watched the sun poke its way through his curtain. He thought about Sistine and the tiger he wanted to make for her. He thought about what kind of wood he would use and how big he would make the tiger. He thought about how happy Sistine would be when she saw it.
    He lay in bed and considered the future, and outside his window, the tiny neon Kentucky Star rose and fell and rose and fell, competing bravely with the light of the morning sun.



 

    Peter stood in the small patch of light making its sullen way through the open flap of the tent. He let the fortuneteller take his hand. She examined it closely, moving her eyes back and forth and back and forth, as if there were a whole host of very