"Pappy?"

"Yes, brother Nick?" The dark head never turned from its studious perusal of the book propped against a log.

"Where does rain come from?"

Jarrod sighed, thinking that Nick had probably climbed up the forbidden tree to dangle by his knees in the forbidden position from what was no doubt a branch situated at a forbidden height. Hanging upside down always made Nick think about clouds and stars and things like that. Several years ago such a realization would have caused the older boy to scramble after his too slippery little brother in an effort spare Nick the impending fall. With age had come wisdom however, and at ten years old Jarrod no longer tried to protect his worrisome sibling from every last bruise and cut. Better to save his strength so he could go for help when Nicky met with the inevitable calamity. Jarrod prided himself on efficiency.

"It comes from clouds, stupid."

"Where do the clouds get the rain from?"

"From the sky."

"And where does the sky get the rain from?"

"From Angels, everyone knows that." Tom Barkley often expressed amazement at Jarrod's ability to answer Nicky's seemingly endless questions, which had been known to drive even the saintly aging reverend of their church to utter distraction. Jarrod's method of sanity protection was simple: Give Nick an answer. It didn't have to be right, just fast and plausible enough that he couldn't easily argue with it. And since Nicky was always asking questions, Jarrod had developed the facility of reading, writing, studying and so on while keeping a small portion of his mind free to handle the interminable interrogation that came along with his brother's company.

Years later, other trial lawyers marveled at Jarrod's knack for looking up precedents and listening to testimony without missing a word. His envious colleagues couldn't know that life with Nicholas Jonathan Barkley could equip one with a whole range of unusual survival skills.

"Angels make rain?" Nick was fascinated.

" ."

"How?" The inevitable question came. Jarrod dragged his attention from his book. This was getting sufficiently complex to require his complete attention, and he shuffled through a multitude of possible answers, discarding most for lack of plausibility.

"They cry." Jarrod was pleased with himself, simple, quick and impossible to disprove: The perfect answer.

Nick considered that for a moment with typical intensity.

"Not true."

"Yes it is." Jarrod was astonished at Nick's immediate rejection of the explanation.

"Then how come they don't taste like tears?" the boy demanded.

"What do you mean?"

"Tears taste sorta salty, right? And they're like hot an' all, aren't they? Kinda burn?"

"Well...uh...they do, I guess."

"An' rain isn't like that; rain tastes kinda sweet, and it's cool and all. Right?"

"Uh... All right, yeah. I guess it does.".

"So, how can they be tears?" Nick demanded triumphantly.

"Um..." The last thing Jarrod was prepared for was logic; at least from this particular source. "Because Angel tears taste different from human tears. "

"Do not!" Nick was openly scornful.

"Do too! When Angels cry their tears are sweet like honey. I don't know why!" Jarrod hastily forestalled the question he could see coming. "It's one of those God miracle things and we aren't supposed to know why. It's just because they're Angels." Jarrod sincerely hoped Nick was going to accept this explanation, although the chances that he would were diminished by the intensity with which Jarrod hoped for him to do so. It was part of a scientifically unproven but anecdotally evidenced theory Jarrod had about his brother.

Had Jarrod approached it from a mathmatical perspective, it would have looked like this:

S + (N x Y) = (T x Z)

or

Silence + (Nick x Y) = (Trouble x Z) with Y being the amount of time Nick was quiet and Z being other variables such as whether or not it was raining, a Sunday or the middle of a very important meeting/party etc.

Jarrod had developed this formula along with several other highly unscientific theories regarding his younger brother IE: hoping Nick would be quiet increased the probability that he would start yelling, dressing him up in Sunday clothes guaranteed rain, and the worse the idea, the more likely he was to put it into action immediately.

As if to prove these theories Nick scowled, and there was a sympathetic rumble of thunder overhead. Jarrod glanced at the sky, suddenly aware of the dark clouds that had no doubt triggered the topic at hand. Better to get home before they were drenched and in trouble.

"Come on, Nicky. Let's get home or we'll be late for dinner."

Jarrod grabbed his books and paused long enough to make certain his ever-troublesome sibling had descended the tree with a minimum of bloodshed before heading back to the house. That, of course, was sufficient time for the sky to open up in a dedicated downpour, squelching Jarrod's hopes of getting home ahead of the storm...and disaster.

"Nicky! Come on! If we get soaked I'm going to be in trouble! Hurry up!"

"Angel tears!"

Jarrod turned back to witness the horror of his younger brother rolling happily in an ever-growing puddle of muddy water.

"Nicky!"

"Angel tears!"

To Jarrod's utter frustration Nick started running through the rain, discarding muddy clothing in every direction. Jarrod ran after the younger boy, struggling to bring his wild colt sibling under control.

"Angel tears!"

With dread, Jarrod realized they were running straight towards the house with Nick having an overly generous head start and a total disregard for such niceties as clothing. Jarrod mentally tallied up the time and put on a burst of speed as he realized Mother would still be hosting the Weekly Social Luncheon at this hour. Nick plowed determinedly through the muddiest part of the lawn running straight for the open door leading into the parlor.

Jarrod made a final, futile leap to tackle his brother and succeeded only in sliding in a muddy heap across the floor. In an effort to slow his slide, he grabbed at an overhanging rag that turned out to be the tablecloth crisply laid out beneath the luncheon buffet. He heard the clatter of breaking dishes and scattered silverware moments before the contents of the table landed painfully on top of him, and he managed a brief moment of thanks that Silas hadn't made that flaming dish thing for lunch. There was the barest flash of white buttocks as Nick wisely vanished up the stairs seconds before guests and hostess responded to the sounds of disaster in progress.

"Jarrod Thomas Barkley!"

Gravy trickled down Jarrod's collar and his vision from his left eye had a curiously purple tint that could only mean grape jam was covering it. Mother was going to want an explanation. This meant telling the truth about his little brother hanging upside down from trees and running naked through the rain and explaining the angel tears answer (which, he guiltily suspected, might be considered vaguely sacrilegious, and hence a bad thing to do in the presence of the reverend's wife) as well confessing that he had not watched his brother carefully enough. The alternative was to lie and take all the blame on himself, which is where it was likely going to fall anyway, while Nicky got off scott free. Glumly Jarrod realized there was no correct answer.

As for Nick, the only part of the day that made a lasting impression was the idea of an angel's tears falling crisp and sweet to the earth below.

Chapter 2