Kathleen Hale - No One Else Can Have You

I smile. “Hi, Ralph Johnston.” First things first, I try to figure out which of his eyes is pointed at me, and then I stare at it. I think most people just don’t make eye contact with Ralph because it’s easier, but I always want him to know that his lazy eye is cool with me. “Nice purple Windbreaker. You look like a mafia wife.”

“That’s fine. Listen, I really need to get started on some things, is that okay?” His arms are full of electronics—some Xbox controllers and a bunch of games, still in the wrappings. Before Ralph got so into video games, engineering programs and tech schools all over Wisconsin and even outside the state were sending him postcards to apply. But Ralph dragged his feet, and then Mr. and Mrs. Johnston died, and Ralph inherited the house, and suddenly he wouldn’t code at all anymore. He started buying collectibles and weird figurines. And then he bought all these Windbreaker sets and started with the video games. The only reason he goes on the computer anymore is to buy more stuff.

Sometimes I worry about him, but then I remind myself that what he’s going through is all part of the process. After Mom died I got obsessed with all sorts of weird things—from good-luck troll dolls, to step-by-step strategies on how to wrestle an alligator or a great white shark, if one should get you. Survival, basically. It goes in cycles. After becoming well versed in different sorts of animal attacks I started getting into people I could emulate. Batman. Harriet Tubman. Harriet the Spy. All Dom’s books concur that your mind goes through phases like that to distract itself. You’ve just got to be patient, really, and allow for ample rehabilitation time.

“Kippy, sorry, but you’re literally blocking the door.”

I move aside, mumbling apologies.

“Thank you.” Ralph shifts under the weight of his electronics, and one of his controllers falls onto the carpet. “Jesus. Could you show me where to plug in, is that all right?” Ralph has this frantic, apologetic way of talking—always on full volume. Ruth once called him an obnoxiously polite emergency siren. “ Danger! Tornado! Is that all right?” I think part of her wanted to be my only friend, because sometimes she’d ask me what I even needed Ralph for. It always felt too pathetic to say, “Because he never ditches me like you do.”

“There’s one right here, but I don’t know how to set it up,” I say, directing Ralph to the bedroom TV. “There’s another one in the bathroom for some reason, but it’s mounted on the wall.”

He grins. “I call this one.”

“Is that Ralph?” Dom calls from inside the bathroom. A toilet flushes.

“Dominic Bushman,” Ralph shouts, struggling out of his sneakers. “I would give you a high five, except you’re in the bathroom and I have all these electronics to deal with. I’m actually very busy, is that all right?” He falls onto his knees in front of the television and carefully removes and folds his sunglasses, then begins untangling the cords. His Windbreaker crinkles and gasps.

Dom opens the bathroom door, wiping his hands on his pants. “I can see that, Ralph.” He looks nervously around the room. “Keys, keys, keys.”

“They’re in your coat,” I tell him.

He claps once, grabbing up his coat, and winks at me. “Call my cell if you need me, Pimple,” he says, and touches my head as he swoops past me out the door. “I’ll be home around three.” The door slams behind him and I lock it like I’ve been told to.

“Listen, Kippy.” Ralph changes the input on the television. “I think you should use the bathroom television to watch the local channel, is that all right?” He uses a controller to outfit a medieval, gnomish character on the screen with facial hair, ammunition, and armor. “Sheriff Staake is supposed to make an announcement today.”

I can feel my pulse in my neck. “About what?” If they’ve got the killer, then it’s over and we get to go home. “Did they find someone?”

“Jesus, Kippy, I don’t know—that’s why one of us needs to keep an eye on Channel Five.” Ralph gapes at me and one of his eyes rolls slightly to the left. “But you betcha that’s what I think, and I’m certainly relieved about it, too—ten more seconds with this town’s new fright and I’d be sleeping on a cot in here with you and Dom. It’s jittery at home.” He shivers, then switches the controller to one hand and roots around in his pocket, pulling out a small doll. “Also I brought this for you.”

“Ah cripes, Ralph,” I say, seeing it’s one of his cherished Norse collectibles. “I can’t take that one, it’s your favorite.”

“Kippy!” Ralph scolds, throwing down his controller. “Thor is associated with thunder, lightning, storms, oak trees, strength, destruction, healing, and the protection of mankind.” He holds up the Thor doll, shaking its beard in my direction. “I want you to feel better.”

I take the gift and try to handle it in a way that reflects its proposed worth. Kind of like I’m accepting a sword. I usually don’t love Ralph giving me presents because I worry he’s going to run out of his parents’ inheritance. I know it takes time to get loss out of your system—or at least to build up enough emotional scar tissue so you can go through the motions and be who you were before everything went wrong. But when Ralph snaps out of it I want him to have enough money left to go to college like he’d planned. Back when he first graduated high school he told everyone that the applications were too much pressure—that he’d get to them later. Then a few years passed and all of this stuff happened. But he might still go.

“Okay,” I say, rubbing Thor’s beard with my thumb. I glance at Ralph, who seems uncomfortable—we’ve been through four deaths at this point, but we don’t really talk about feelings, and that’s how we both like it. So I try to think of a question that will make him feel important and distract us both. One great thing about Ralph is that he’s spent so much time on the internet that he’s kind of like a human Wikipedia, so I tend to go to him whenever I need facts. Like for school papers, or because I haven’t talked to him for a while, or something. “Um hey, what’s with all these ladybugs?” I point to the reddish dots lounging on our walls. Tons of them get indoors every fall, but I’ve never asked about it. The whole time we’ve been at the Great Moose, they’ve made it feel like camping.

“Hmph.” Ralph snaps to attention, scanning the room. “Well, Kippy, you know autumn is a funny time for insects, it turns out. Not only is the environment getting cold, but also their lifespan is coming to an end. They fly inside seeking warmth, not knowing what’s happening.” He shrugs. “They come in here to die.”

“Huh,” I say. “Thanks.” I start toward the bathroom to turn on the other television, but Ralph calls after me, and I spin around in the doorway.

“I want to tell you that I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, looking at his knees. “I know that’s a thing people say, and you’re probably sick of hearing it. I mean, it gets exhausting—heck I know it. So I’m not going to say anything else about it except for ‘I know it hurts, and I’m right across the street.’” He clears his throat. “Also, ‘Anything you want to be, you can come be that with me. Rain or shine, no problem.’”

My eyes burn and I taste metal. Anything you want to be, you can come be that with us. Rain or shine, no problem. It’s what Mr. and Mrs. Johnston used to say to me after Mom died. And it was a big deal, too, because in Friendship, people just want to ignore the bad stuff and keep on bringing food until it all goes away and we can return to our pleasantries—our “How’s by you?” and “What about this weather?” Around here, it’s a big deal to acknowledge someone’s sadness with your words.