Always October Read Free

gown, Tia sits in front of a large tree, her legs folded to the side. The ground is covered with brilliantly colored leaves, hidden in places by strands of mist. Tia’s hair, redder than the most scarlet of the leaves, tumbles over her shoulders like a river of flame, reaching nearly to her waist. Her right hand, lifted to shoulder level, points toward the enormous full moon that floats over her right shoulder. Her left hand rests in her lap, thumb and little finger folded under.
    Three details make the picture particularly strange. First, it’s set in the cemetery; behind her are tombstones and a mausoleum.
    Second, on the moon are the hands of a clock. It is five minutes to midnight.
    Third, despite her smile, a tear is trickling down her cheek.
    Dad used to stare at the painting too. If I came up beside him while he was doing so, he would put his hand on my shoulder and say, “My father used to say there was a long story behind that picture, and the key to the family mystery. When I begged him to explain, he would only say, ‘I’ll tell you more on your eleventh birthday.’”
    That was all Dad ever said about it. He didn’t need to say more. I knew that by the time he had turned eleven, his father was gone.
    Like father, like son …
    In my room I lined up my pencils by length, then took out the picture I was working on, an attempt to copy the cover of one of my grandfather’s books. It was cool: two horrifying monsters wrestling in a swamp while behind them a beautiful woman without many clothes presses herself against a big old tree, screaming.
    I love drawing. It’s about the only time I can shut out the world and not think about stuff like how many times I have to touch the door before it’s safe to open it. I got so lost in the picture, I almost forgot about the trouble with my mother.
    Then I smelled the hamburgers.
    Mom knows I can’t resist hamburgers, so she cooks them whenever she feels she might be even partly in the wrong. It’s her way of apologizing without actually having to say “I’m sorry.”
    Mom isn’t a big talker.
    I tried to resist but the smell was too good. Before long I was downstairs, setting the table—my role when Mom cooks apology burgers. Later, as we were clearing the dishes, she said, “I have to work on that tapestry I’m making for the new hotel over in Winchester. Want to join me in the Loom Room while you do your homework?”
    Mom’s a weaver. She does most of her work on a big loom Dad built for her back when I was a baby. Later he made a much smaller version for me. Mom had been using it to teach me to weave. I liked it; the rhythm was relaxing. I don’t use it anymore, though. I stopped when Dad disappeared.
    Mom’s big weavings hang in art galleries. One is even in a museum. After Dad disappeared, her weavings changed. Some, filled with dark, jagged designs, were downright disturbing. That was why I was glad when she got the hotel commission: it forced her to create a design more like her work used to be.
    It had been a long time since she’d had a new commission. Fortunately, she has a part-time job teaching weaving at the community college. Otherwise, we’d really be in trouble.
    â€œWell?” asked Mom, interrupting my thoughts. “Do you want to join me or not?”
    I shrugged. “I guess so.”
    â€œAll right, get your books.”
    Even though I was pretending it was no big deal, I loved being in the Loom Room. It’s at the front of the house, in the base of the tower. The racks of yarn make it look as if someone has spilled a rainbow on the wall. Behind the bench where Mom sits is a picture of Penelope, weaving as she waits for Odysseus. To Mom’s right is a painting of Arachne, who was turned into a spider for boasting that she could weave better than Athena. Above my own loom, which—with the help of a piece of plywood—I now use as a