A Study in Sin by August Wainwright

reminds me of us. I’m Scout and you’re Atticus,” she said, proud of her analogy.
    “I’m no Atticus,” Jim said.
    “Yes you are. Atticus is strong, just like you. Plus, he thinks he’s funny and he really isn’t.”
    Jim laughed. “You know, you need to make some friends. You spend too much time out here with your face buried in those books.”
    “I like being with you,” she said.
    Why do I try ? he thought to himself; exactly like her mother.
    Claire must have sensed her father’s mind wandering.
    “Will you sit with me for a few minutes?”
    Jim lowered himself to the soft earth as Claire shifted to be closer to him. She reached over and put her little hand in his and the two sat in silence for a while.
    Claire laid back and pulled Jim down with her. She stared up at the thick gray clouds that passed by overhead, smiling.
    “I like to look at the clouds,” she said. “I like to pick one out and watch it move across the sky and see what it will look like. Sometimes it will look like a goat, then it will blow apart and look like our truck; then it won’t look like anything at all.”
    Jim said nothing, but he let himself stare up at the passing clouds.
    “I bet mom liked clouds,” she said.
    “Why do you think that?”
    “I just know she would have. If I like clouds, then she had to like clouds too.”
    Again, Jim said nothing.
    “I think about her a lot,” Claire continued.
    “You didn’t know her,” Jim blurted out, surprised by her comment. Claire turned and scowled at him. He didn’t know why he had said that. “I think about her a lot too.”
    Claire started to say something, but paused. Her mouth sort of hung open in an odd frozen look as her young mind raced. Jim knew she couldn’t hold back, so he waited patiently for her to say whatever she was thinking.
    “I don’t think I had to know Mom to know what she was like,” she said a second later. “I mean, I am her. So whatever I’m like, she must have been like that too.”
    “I suppose so,” Jim said, “But you’ve got some of me in there too; the stubborn part at least.” Claire smiled at that. “You are like her, though. A lot like her. I’m sure that she’s smiling down on us, and that she’s very proud of you.”
    Claire made a sound that was half laughter, half just a puff of air.
    “Mom’s not in Heaven. There is no Heaven,” she said.
    “Claire, don’t say that.”
    “But it’s true. There’s no Heaven just magically up in the sky. That’s ridiculous. There’s just space, and past that is more space. I mean, at least that’s what I think.”
    Jim wanted to say something, anything. He wanted to be horrified at what he was hearing from his young daughter; instead, he found that he couldn’t take his eyes off the clouds overhead as they moved across the soft blue canvas above him.
    “I think that when Mom died, she just died. Like sometimes when I go to sleep and I don’t have any dreams. I fall asleep and then I wake up. There’s nothing in the middle. I think that’s what happened to Mom.”
    Claire waited for her Dad to tell her to stop talking, but he didn’t.
    “I read in a book that everything is made up of everything else. We are made of the same water that dinosaurs drank. It said we are all made of the same stuff stars are made of. I like to think she’s a cloud or a blade of grass or a hundred other things, and that she just doesn’t know because she’s asleep. That’s way better than thinking that she’s watching down on us, waiting until we die. I like her much better as clouds and grass.”
    In his head, Jim was screaming for Claire to shut up. He was trying to convince himself that she was just being a stupid child, but deep inside, he knew she was right. How many days had he wondered what happened to Fiona? How many hours had he wasted cursing unknown deities he believed he didn’t believe in?
    “Read your book,” was all he said, squeezing her small hand.
    Claire leaned over