Orbiting Jupiter

by Gary D. Schmidt

Around and around, and I wondered if he was skating in the silver moonlight with Maddie. Around and around, and I didn’t want him to stop, no matter how cold it got, or late. Around and around, and the sharp stars watched. And the low moon. And Jupiter over the mountains.

He didn’t know what was coming over him, but it was huge and terrible and strong. It was inside him and outside him, and it was already starting to scream, and it was getting louder and his head was getting louder and his brain was getting louder and he threw water in his face but he couldn’t stop it he couldn’t stop it he couldn’t stop it he couldn’t stop it.

“Would you have left a guy being beat up to go find a teacher?” I asked. My father, he wiped his hand across his face, and what was left behind was a smile.

Still, there’s something about coming into a barn full of warm cows, their sweet breath, the scent of the dry hay, and the sounds of their shuffling and snuffling. With the lanterns hissing, it all glows. And like I said, leaning against a warm cow during milking is fine.

He didn’t ever want to close his eyes. He didn’t want to miss a second.

I guess that night at the pond, while my father and mother and I got colder and colder listening to Joseph, I guess that night unfroze him.

“Maybe angels aren’t always meant to stop bad things.” “So what good are they?” “To be with us when bad things happen.”

Sometimes it’s like that. You know something good is coming, and even though it’s not even close yet, still, just knowing it’s coming is enough to make you snort and nicker. Sort of.

Things go through your mind when you’re standing in the cold, in the dark, watching the snow, with your feet freezing on the wood floor. They do.

Pastor Greenleaf looked at me. “The boy isn’t your brother?” he said. “I have his back,” I said.

Standing with his arms crossed as if he’d wait until the end of the world.

I had his back. And he had mine. That’s what greater love is.