Castles Read Online Free

they didn't need to know what I felt about them.
    I started writing again when I was twelve.
    The dream I had the night we stumbled across the body in the Bus was surreal, of course, but it was also memorable in other ways. I met people I don't think I'd ever seen before, walking around the Bus in circles, holding hands and singing songs I didn't know. They would stop on occasion, look at me and laugh, then continue on in their little carousel.
    One of the faces in the crowd looked at me longer than any of the others. There was something recognizable about the man—maybe in the way he walked or what he wore or how his eyes would speak volumes to me each time he rounded the corner of the Bus and caught my gaze. I don't know for sure if he was the body in the Bus, but my thoughts have always gone that way.

5
     
    The next evening, a storm smacked into our trailer park. I'd found the cupboard to be too small to hide in, so I'd started to crawl under the table. Mama would always look at me whenever she was home and just shake her head. I could imagine the anger in her eyes, but I feared nature more than her wrath. Didn’t matter: she wasn't home that night.
    I sat under the table with my knees pulled to my chest. I think this was the first time I really wondered what I was doing. Here I was, a mature nine year old who'd just been witness to a dead body. What did nature have against me that I feared it so much?
    Nervously, I crawled out from under the table. Mama wasn't home to witness the birth of her daughter from the cocoon of fear I'd been so wrapped up in, but I knew Grandma would probably tell her. I thought for a moment of going to the window and watching the dust pound the side of the trailer, but I never made it that far. All I could do was stand against the side of a wall in the kitchen and wait.
    At least I wasn't under the table.
    When the winds finally died down, I took a few cautious steps toward the front door. Grandma was outside in her chair, rocking back and forth. As she rocked, I heard her hum softly.
    "Grandma?" My voice stopped both her hum and her rocking.
    "Come here, Maggie." She turned back and looked at me through the screen door. "The storm is over."
    I stepped onto the porch and sat down next to her. There was still a pretty strong breeze and the smell of rain and dust was in the air. The sky had turned a reddish brown.
    "Did you hear the wind talk, Maggie?"
    "No, Grandma. I didn't listen."
    "Well, well. You really should." She looked down at me and brushed her hand through my hair. "You didn't hide under the table this time."
    "No I didn't."
    Grandma was proud of me. She didn't have to say it for me to know. Inside, I felt more comfort emanating from her than I think I'd ever felt from anyone else.
    "What did the wind say, Grandma?"
    "Oh . . ." She took her hand back and pulled the afghan around her a little tighter. "Something about a secret you're keeping."
    I didn't know at the time, but Grandma had always known where I was and what I was doing. She told me a few months later that she'd woken up from her nap and sat outside on the patio, watching the boys and me run from the Bus. I don't know if she saw me hit Cade.
    "The wind knows a lot of things, Maggie. You can't keep it all to yourself."
    I swallowed and looked out past the fence. The sun had set, but in the red glow of the dust tainted sky I could see the outline of the Bus.

6
     
    For the next few nights, I dreamt of the Bus and the carousel of singing men. The one who looked at me for longer than anyone else had moved from the line and stood to the side. Always he looked at me, and although I wished he'd speak, he never said a word. He smiled, though, and I appreciated that.
    I still wondered if he was the man I'd seen in the Bus. I'd wake up from each dream, write down what I saw and always question the possibility. I don't consider myself an obsessive person, but for days after, the body in the Bus was at the forefront of my