Free Sons from Afar by Cynthia Voigt

Sammy told him. “Go back to work, I’ll take care of it. Do your lab, or whatever it is. Otherwise, how’ll you keep your perfect grade-point average?” He felt so good, he stood behind Maybeth with his hand on her shoulder for a minute, to say, without interrupting her, that he liked the way she played and sang. Because he did.
    Gram was sitting at the kitchen table, studying an old notebook that was filled with pale brown writing. Sammy sat down across from her. He waited until she looked up.
    â€œI’m not going to tell you,” she said, figuring she knew what he was after.
    â€œSo you’ve said. Over and over,” he answered. “I’m not asking,” he told her.
    â€œThat’s what I figured.” He waited for her smile before he let himself laugh, the way he wanted to. He’d find out when her birthday was. She’d get careless again sometime. He’d keep narrowing it down, she’d forget and let something slip: but he’d remember.
    â€œWhat is it then,” she asked.
    â€œWhat’re you reading?”
    â€œAn old recipe book. I am bored with what we’ve been eating. Bored stupid. But I can’t find anything new that doesn’t make my stomach turn. Barley soup with sliced hotdogs floating in it? Feeds ten for fifty cents a person. Did you ever think how many dinners I’ve cooked?”
    â€œNo,” he said. He hadn’t. Now he did. “A lot,” he suggested.
    â€œA lot.”
    â€œToo many?”
    â€œMaybeth helps me out, and frequently.”
    â€œDicey did too, when she had to. We wash the dishes,” he reminded her.
    â€œYes. That’s all true. Then what is it you want?” She knew there was something.
    â€œIf I knew when your birthday was, I could give you a cookbook for your birthday.”
    That made her smile again. “Yes, you could,” she agreed again, but didn’t say anything more, which made him smile.
    â€œYou have my birth certificate, don’t you?” he asked her.
    â€œYour birth certificate?” It wasn’t often anybody surprised Gram, and he enjoyed having done it. “I guess I do at that. It’s in with all the papers the lawyers collected.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn the desk, of course.” He watched her face, as she decidedwhether or not she needed to ask him why he was asking. He knew what he’d answer, if she did: I just want to see it. But he didn’t want to answer that, because it wasn’t entirely true. He would answer that, if he had to, but he didn’t want to have to. But he didn’t think Gram would ask him why, and he was right.
    â€œThanks,” he said, getting up from the table. “Does the library have cookbooks?”
    â€œHow would I know that?”
    â€œAsk James. I bet he’ll know. Because you could get some from the library. But I’m not bored,” he told her, leaving the room.
    It was so simple, Sammy thought, going back down the hallway to the living room. He didn’t know why James found things so difficult when they were so simple. He suspected that James manufactured difficulties, that he did it because he liked things more complicated than they were. He heard the piano playing softly, and two voices singing. James’s voice had settled to a light baritone, which made a good contrast to Maybeth’s full soprano, like a thin gold chain.
    Sammy stood in the doorway, watching James standing there beside the piano bench, bent over to read the music and pick out his part from the piano background. “Full fathom five thy father lies,” they sang. “Of his bones are coral made.” Maybeth’s voice sang to the melody, but James sang to the words. “Those are pearls that were his eyes. Nothing of him that doth change.” When they got to the ding-dong bell chorus, they needed another voice, so Sammy stepped up and put one in. He couldn’t read the