Rich Shapero (12 page)

They all helped carry the food to the
table, and when they sat down, Robbie let Mom serve him, like she did when he
was younger. Dad said the prayer his own mom had taught him, and Robbie
remembered it and backed him up. They hadn't done that together for a really
long time. They ate and they talked, and—best of all—there wasn't a moment that
Dad sank from sight. You could see everything in his face—he was all outside.

"Where were you today?" Dad
asked.

"Same old place," Robbie said.
"How about you?"

"Mm?"

"Last night," Robbie said.

"Oh, same old place," Dad
laughed. "At the department. You have to do that if you want to be a doc.
Sometimes you work all night long. Hey, I've got an idea. Tomorrow—let's go to
Creamer's Field."

"That would be wonderful," Mom
said. "Wouldn't it, Robbie?"

"Sure."

"The geese," Mom said.
"Remember?"

"Yep. They're great," Robbie
nodded. The geese were for toddlers, but why spoil the fun?

For a moment, his parents' voices faded.
Robbie imagined picking up his old life where it had left off. There wasn't any
world beyond the Clearing, and his only playmates were kids like Jim. He
brushed his teeth, and it wasn't so bad, because Dad was with him, talking as
they brushed, and they were talking about brains and nerves, and things they
both liked so much. Mom was cheerful, and she wasn't so tired that she wanted
to sleep all the time. And at night, they'd talk about the cabin-in-the-wild
Dad would build some day. It was a simple life, like the one Mom-the-log led in
his dream. Robbie basked in the memory of it, but he knew it was all pretend.
Things weren't going to be like that again.

He hoped Mom and Dad would be happy, of
course. But he wasn't the same Robbie, and it wasn't just that he was older.
He'd changed. He was self-reliant, and he'd learned how to be brave. He'd been
tested by Shivers, and crossed into Too Far. He was in love with Fristeen, and
he lived now to explore.

The Robbie that Mom and Dad knew— He was
gone.

"I'll get dessert," Mom said,
rising.

"Dad and I agree—" Robbie glanced
at Dad. "We're lucky to have a mom like you."

"Robbie—" Mom blushed.

When she turned, Robbie gave Dad a meaning
look.

As Mom's footsteps faded, Dad regarded him
uncertainly.

"Mom got pretty upset," Robbie
said. "I had to calm her down."

Dad seemed at a loss for words.
"Thanks," he said at last.

For Robbie, the days that followed were
serene.

Dad's return ushered in a new era of
harmony, and the little house was, once again, a welcoming place.

Mom read one of the books Jim's mom had given
her. She sat on the sofa and disappeared into her thoughts, and that made her
happy. Afterward, when she shared her thoughts with Dad, he smiled. Robbie
wondered if he was just being nice, but then he looked at her that special way
and kissed her temple. Dad only did that when he loved what you were thinking.

One night after dinner, Mom was putting the
wash away.

"Robbie?" She was calling from
his room, and she sounded flustered.

"What?"

Mom stood by his dresser. "Your socks
are gone."

"I used them," he confessed,
"to mark the way."

The most amazing thing happened—Mom didn't
get angry.

"You'll need some new ones. For
markers, I've got clothes we can shred. Loud colors? Or is white better?"

Robbie's leash remained long and loose, and
he had no cause to tug on it. He was with Fristeen nearly every day. They
talked about Dawn and the Dream Man a lot.

Robbie told Fristeen all he knew about the
Dream Man. How commanding he was, but gentle too. He lifted you like a tuft of
willow down, and bore you away without hurting you in the least. Robbie figured
out what happened to the Dream Man's head. He didn't have a skull, like people
do. It was more like a jar. And it didn't have a top, it was open to the air.
So his dreams could go anywhere, anytime—they weren't trapped inside his mind.

"He's so
serious
,"
Fristeen said. "Dawn likes him that way."

They were climbing through the scrub one
day, headed for the Great Place. A breeze was at their backs, and Fristeen was
humming like she so often did.

"I like it when you hum," Robbie
told her.

"I can hear Dawn's song,"
Fristeen said, "in the wind and the leaves. When Dawn is singing, I hum
along." There was reverence in her voice. This was one of Dawn's deepest
secrets.

"Whenever you're happiest, Dawn remembers.
She hears the little sounds you make, and puts them in a song. Not what you
say. Just, those
little
sounds." Fristeen's voice softened. "I hear
us
when Dawn sings. You and me, Robbie. Because of her, everything good that
happens never goes away."

They crossed the Great Place in silence,
and climbed the slope above Used-to-Be. The Two-Tree rose before them. They
approached it and peered down.

The green viburnums descended. The black
trees spread out. And there was the Pool, blood-red in the sun.

"Dawn married him," Fristeen
said. "That's what we saw."

Robbie thought about that.

"They're together now," she
mused, scanning the hills.

"Or off on a dream," Robbie said.

"I can hear her singing,"
Fristeen reminded him.

"Want to go down?"

A stray breeze struck them and sent shivers
up their backs.

"It's their honeymoon," Fristeen
said, considering. "They want time to themselves."

So they turned away. During the two weeks
that followed, they returned to the Two-Tree, but they didn't enter the black
trees. It wasn't that they were afraid— They didn't want to bother Dawn and her
Dream Man. And it was so blissful in the realm of green leaves.

It was hot in late June, and still hotter
in July. They were masters of their kingdom now, all the places they knew so well.
They sighed and sank into them, wearing them like soft pajamas, content to idle
and laze. They would stretch out beneath the Jigglies with honey on their
fingers, and the lemon butterflies would come to perch and dance. Or they'd sit
and rock together atop Where You Can See, and watch the wind sweep in waves
through the mirror trees. The leaves were shards that each gust would shake,
and the crowns heaved like swells on a shattered lake.

The forest continued to change. The Dot
branches were so bushy, you could barely climb through them. Spikes rose from
the fireweed around Used-to-Be, and magenta blooms burst out. The canopy got so
thick, the forest was like one big tree. When you looked up at the trunks, you
couldn't tell which boughs bore the leaves.

One day, Robbie decided it was time to
climb a tree to its top. They stood in the Great Place together, gazing up, and
imagined how he might. But there was nothing to hold onto—even the lowest Great
branches were impossibly high. They settled for the Bendies and found one with
knobs, and he shinnied halfway up it, hanging on for his life. A breeze caught
him and he cried out, Fristeen screaming below, and the bough swung him wildly,
heart racing, eyes dazzled— It was a victory and they celebrated, whirling till
they swooned. And then they shouted out the details, and He Knows spread the
news.

At night, Robbie opened his window and fell
asleep to the sounds—ticks and chirrups, shrills and caws. Was the Dream Man
with him? In the late hours, a distant echo eddied in Robbie's ear. A memory,
most likely. Dawn didn't visit Fristeen, but for her also, there was a
mysterious reminder outside. After hours white and blinding, the sun dipped for
a brief time and painted pictures of Dawn with orange juice and jam. Like
postcards from far away. When either of them got one, they would share it. They
spoke of their gods fondly, as if they were relatives in the States.

Then the rain came. And with it, came
trouble. Not so much for Robbie. At home, the merriment had faded, but his
parents seemed at peace. Things were busy at the lab, and Mom was scribbling in
her journal like she used to. But Fristeen was upset with Grace, and Robbie had
to help her through that. They spent every day together, and they had the house
to themselves. Grace was gone a lot—even at bedtime, or in the morning when
Fristeen got up. Fristeen didn't know how to cook or do the wash, and it was
creepy being in the house all night by yourself.

"Grace just doesn't care,"
Fristeen would say. Then she'd be sorry she was angry, and feel bad about that.
Grace was a great mom, in lots of ways. When she was gone, she didn't forget
you. She'd bring back some kind of surprise. And even when you were furious,
she didn't get angry herself. She just wanted to make up.

It rained for six days, and on the sixth,
Robbie rose early and left first thing. As he crossed the deck, he recalled the
week he'd spent fogging the window. What a baby he'd been. You put on your
jacket and go where you like. If it rains, you get wet. Simple as that.

Fristeen was waiting. They hugged and
kidded, and then huddled in her room with crayons and birch curls they'd found
in the Great Place. The bark was like paper, and when you flattened it on the
floor, you could write your thoughts down. It even had lines. When they
finished, they fished Robbie's bow and arrows out from under her bed. They'd
taped an ugly likeness on the laundry room closet, and the prize was a kiss if
you hit Shivers' nose.

After that, they sat by the window and
played "Follow Your Thoughts." Of the games they'd invented, Robbie
liked that one best.

"It's okay indoors. But I'd rather be
outside." He eyed the wet woodland through the speckled pane.

"Me too," Fristeen nodded.

"It's safer here. The forest can be
dangerous."

She made her eyes wide and grinned.

Robbie laughed. "It's fun to think
about things that scare you—before they happen. Or after they've scared you,
when you know you're safe. But right when it's happening—"

Fristeen understood. "It's no fun at
all."

"Isn't that strange?"

Just then, someone banged on the front
door.

They stared at each other. The banging came
again.

"Angel?" a man growled.

"Duane," Fristeen said.

"Pretend we're not here."

Fristeen shook her head.

She strode toward the door and Robbie followed.
Fristeen twisted the knob, budged the door and peered through the gap.

"Where's Grace?" Duane said.

Beneath the black slash of hair, Robbie saw
the suspicious eyes shift, trying to look inside. Duane's shiny coat was
streaming. He was soaked. The rain hissed on the hot parts of his motorcycle,
parked in a puddle on the drive.

"She's not home," Fristeen told
him.

"Open the door."

Fristeen quivered. "You can't come
in."

"Shit for breakfast—" Through the
gap, Robbie saw Duane's coat swell, then the little animals inside it were
yapping and squealing, and the hair on Duane's head was whipping back and
forth. "It's raining out here!"

Fristeen was wide-eyed. "You can't
come in," she yelled, holding the knob tight.

Duane kicked the door with his knee.

"If you brought something,"
Fristeen said, "slip it through."

A moment of silence. Duane stepped to one
side and neither could see him. They waited, breathless, listening to the rain.
Then a brown pill bottle pushed through the gap.

"Save a few for Grace," Duane
said.

Fristeen didn't respond.

"We're in love, you know," Duane
added drily.

"You'll do anything for nookie,"
Fristeen said with contempt.

Another silence.

"You're right about that," Duane
muttered.

More silence. He cursed and kicked the door
again.

Then they heard the gravel crunching.

A moment later, Duane's motorcycle rumbled
away through the rain.

Robbie was pale. "What's nookie?"

"I don't know. Something Grace
has." Fristeen raised the pill bottle." '
Duane is special,'"
she mimicked her mother. "The only thing special about him is these."

She hurled the pill bottle down, and red
capsules sprayed across the floor.

Robbie saw Fristeen's face twist into a
fearsome mask, then she shrieked and lunged, kicking mattresses and blankets aside.
When she reached the kitchen door, she beat her fists against it. Then she
stopped and wrenched it open. Robbie followed her in, stunned, unsure what to
do.

Fristeen swept her arm toward a package of
soup crackers on the counter, and they went flying around the room. Then she
jumped onto a stool and flung the cupboard doors open. A can of beans and a jar
of peanut butter—that was it.