Rich Shapero (5 page)

"—you're
very
close."

Robbie nodded. "I'm going to marry
her."

Grace eyed him with amazement. "In one
day?"

"Yep."

"It's so different—" She turned
aside. "When you're older. When you sleep with the one you love."

"I'd like to do that."

Grace burst out laughing. "I'm
sorry." She gave him a kindly look. "I'm sure it will be wonderful
when you do."

Then something made her choke, her arms
wrapped around her middle and she gave a piteous groan. "Oh—" Her
eyes closed tightly and she rocked from side to side. "I have a Romeo,
too. He'll find me, Robbie."

Her longing went through him like an
electric shock.

"Someday." Grace gazed sadly at
him.

Robbie saw the tears in her eyes. She drew
on her cigarette again and unfolded her legs. Her robe parted, and he could see
the inside of her thigh.

"Don't get any ideas." Grace gave
him a reproving look and closed her robe. But she was just having fun. Her eyes
sparkled like Fristeen's and they played the same game. The sparkle drew you
in, then it moved and you lost it, and you had to find it again. That's the way
women are, Robbie thought. The beautiful kind. They had little stars that
played hide-and-seek with your mind.

"Are you Fristeen's mom?"

Grace made an odd face and nodded.

Robbie wondered what it would be like to
have a mom like that.

"Here I am," Fristeen cried.

Robbie hopped to his feet.

The bedroom door swung open and Fristeen
whirled out, a riot of color and flying things. Above the churning galaxy, her
eyes flashed secret looks.

"Forgive us our fantasies," Grace
said. "It's all we have."

The tornado whirled to a halt. Fristeen
lowered her arms and they came to rest on her dress. It was emerald green, but
it seemed to have burst. There were pieces cut out of it, and things attached. Swatches
of fabric, pictures from magazines and books. Glued and pinned, or hanging
loose on green yarn. Her hair was even crazier than before—a confusion of knots
on top, with bows on either side.

Robbie swallowed. "I thought about
you."

"Oh my," Grace murmured.

Fristeen smiled, but something made her
hesitate.

"Give your prince a hug," Grace
said. She reached out to catch a photo of a bird as it fell off its thread, but
when she moved to re-tie it, Fristeen drew back. "We were up nights
working on it," Grace told Robbie.

"It was my idea," Fristeen said
stiffly, eyeing the cigarette.

Grace stood with the smoke coiling up from
one hand, and the detached bird in the other.

"Would you like to go out?"
Fristeen asked.

Robbie nodded uncertainly.

Fristeen clasped his hand and wheeled him
away from her mother. When Robbie glanced back, Grace was smirking and shaking
her head.

She followed them to the front door.
"Where will you be?" Grace asked.

Fristeen gave her a long-suffering look.

"Don't mind me," Grace recanted.
And then, "Robbie—"

He turned, hearing the suspense in her
voice.

Grace's eyes glittered. "Set the woods
on fire."

***

They hurried along the path away from the
house.

"I like her," Robbie said.

Fristeen made a witless face.

"Does she make you brush your
teeth?"

"She doesn't make me do
anything."

"That man on the motorcycle—"

"Duane."

"Is he your dad?"

Fristeen looked irritated and shook her
head. Some passing thought held her captive for a moment. "Dada doesn't
live with us right now. Do you want to see our farm?"

"Sure."

She took a jog in the path. They threaded
through low brush till they reached an unsettled place where the earth had been
churned into hummocks. Fireweed was everywhere. In the middle was a tractor. It
was rusted and caked with mud, and one of the tires was flat.

"We grow corn and melons—"
Fristeen said. "All kinds of things."

They returned to the path and hurried along
it, their excitement mounting as they started up the Hill.

"Go from tree to tree," Fristeen
reminded him, "and don't stop between."

Everything had changed. The red currant
fans sheltered broods of tiny blooms, and the bushes had gone crazy. All the
buds had burst, and everywhere they turned there were bunches of leaves. And
when the wind lifted, each was a galaxy flashing—they all did just what
Fristeen had done with her dress.

High above, the aspen crowns seemed about
to touch. Their leaves fluttered like the wings of invisible birds. You
couldn't hear the sound indoors, but here beneath them it was really loud. No
need to touch their trunks now, their thoughts were gushing: a million strange
secrets all whispering at once, thrilling but soothing, like the sigh of the
spout when you're filling the tub.

As they reached the top, the magic sound
ceased. When they turned to look, the leaves were perfectly still. The wind had
stopped, and across the slope, all the invisible birds had flown.

"It's like someone's watching,"
Fristeen said softly.

"Are you scared?" Robbie turned,
scanning earth and sky.

"No sign of Shivers," Fristeen
observed.

Robbie's brow crinkled. "Let's see
what He Knows says."

They clasped hands, followed the Bendies
and scrambled under the Fallen Down Trees. On the far bank of the stream bed,
He Knows was waiting, looking grizzled and damp, squinting and glaring over his
ragged goatee.

Robbie stepped forward. "Is it a good
day to explore?"

"Warm, warm . . ."

Fristeen nodded. "The sun's going to
shine."

"Hide, hide, hide, hide . . ."

That bothered Robbie.

"I like to hide," Fristeen
shrugged.

"If something bad's going to happen,
you better say so."

"No, no, no, no . . ."

"See," Fristeen laughed.
"Relax."

"Pass, pass, pass, pass . . ."

So they continued along the bank, scooted
over the log bridge and climbed the incline, pausing by the gate of stumps at the
start of Where You Can See.

The way was clear and there was hardly a
breeze.

Robbie stepped onto the ridge, feeling
brave. There wasn't any reason to be afraid. "Come on," he motioned,
and Fristeen caught up with him. They stood together, looking down on either
side. There were more trees than you can imagine, and not a branch was bare
now. It was an ocean of leaves.

"If we jumped, do you think they'd
catch us?"

Robbie glanced at her and they both
laughed.

They hurried up the crestline, passed the
place they'd stopped at the week before, reached the high point of the ridge
and then continued along it, descending. A confusion of hills and valleys
opened before them.

"Nobody's ever been here before,"
Robbie said, recalling Fristeen's words.

She smiled. "We're the first."

Which way now? He pointed to the left. A
slope was covered thickly with little trees. They started down. You had to hold
on, and you kept slipping, but it wasn't that hard. The branches were covered
with tiny white dots, and the leaves were sticky. Fristeen started singing,
"Dot Trees, Dot Trees."

Robbie laughed. Long droopy things hung
from the leaf clusters, covered with golden dust. "Shake them, shake
them."

So they shook the branches, and the air
sparkled as they descended. The Dot Trees were merry and liked that very much.

At the bottom of the slope, they came out
onto a small meadow.

"What's wrong?" Fristeen asked.

"I'm thinking," Robbie said,
turning.

"About what?"

"Getting lost." He eyed
Fristeen's hair. Her bows were too small to see through the leaves.
"Maybe—" He ran his hands through the paper and fabric adorning her
dress.

Then he noticed: he was wearing white
socks. He sat down, removed a shoe, and took one off. He tied it to a Dot Tree
so it was in clear view.

"Perfect," she exclaimed, turning
to embrace the meadow before them. "It's the Perfect Place."

Robbie regarded her. "It's perfect
because you're here."

Fristeen glowed. They held hands and
crossed the lush flat.

At its edge, wands rose from the soil,
crankled and thin. They were heading right through them when Fristeen cried
out.

"They're covered with needles."

Robbie yelped as one jabbed his leg.

He could see now—every wand was
bristling—so they backed out and scouted along the edge of the patch. The
plants grew thickly, there were impossible tangles, but Robbie found a place
where a shadowy tunnel seemed to go through.

He dropped to all fours and wriggled
forward. Fristeen followed close behind. The tunnel turned and dipped and rose
toward the light. A stray needle stuck Robbie and he sucked his breath. Then
his elbows emerged and he scrambled out.

"Made it." He gave her a victory
grin. "Some of your things came off." He eyed her dress.

"It scratched you." Fristeen
touched the scarlet squiggle on his arm.

"Yep."

She bent her head and kissed it.

Robbie reached out and stroked her hair.
When he gazed into her eyes, they deepened and the stars didn't shift. No
hide-and-seek now—no laughter, no fear. Just hope, and hurts that must be
shared. The one you yearned for was here, and she yearned just like you did.
Joy made love smile, but pain made it pure.

"Look—" Fristeen turned her head
up.

Robbie peered into the sun.

"White," she said.

"Yep." It blasted your eyes.

"Now close," Fristeen said.

"Red," Robbie announced.

"And white," Fristeen flared her
lids. "And red," closing again. "And white and red, and white
and red—"

"And white and red—" Robbie
joined in.

Faster and faster, open and close—your head
was full of flashes, a pot boiling over. And then it did, and you fell down,
clutching blindly for the other, euphoric and giggling.

Before they left, Robbie removed his other
sock and marked the spot.

From there, a ledge stretched on the level,
awned with thin aspens. They hurried along it, leaves Jiggling above. A breeze
cooled them and pleased them, and then they reached water— not a lot, just a
Trickle—and they hopped across.

Something rasped in their ears.

Robbie scanned the trees. A squirrel was
scampering along a branch. When it reached the end, it rasped again.

"What do you want?" Robbie asked.

The squirrel just stared.

"Is it Shivers?" Fristeen
wondered.

The squirrel wiggled its nose.

Robbie shook his head. "He's talking
to us."

The squirrel twitched its tail, shrilled
and made a chucking sound.

"What did he say?" Fristeen laughed.

The squirrel sprang from its perch into an
alder nearby and went vaulting through the leaves.

'"Follow me,'" Robbie cried, and
went racing after him.

The pursuit led them splashing through
Trickle. The water kinked and raveled, and then suddenly it vanished and the
ground dropped before them. They were on the rim of a bowl surrounded by low
willows. On the branch of one, the squirrel sat, gazing down. The bowl was full
of leaves.

"It's a secret place," Robbie
said.

Overhead, a lattice had been woven by the
trees' pale arms, and at every joint catkins were bursting, like a web of
cracked pipes spraying liquid sun.

"What's that, over there?"
Fristeen pointed.

Through the tangle of boughs, a hundred
yards distant, dark islands seemed to drift. The trees on them were spiky and
black, and each grew to a point. And there was space in between them, as if
profusion was banned there, or some scourge had struck.

The squirrel chattered, calling their
attention back.

"It's where you hide," Robbie
said, remembering the words of He Knows.

"How far down does it go?"

Robbie dropped to his hands and knees.
"Let's see." He started to descend.

Before long, he was thigh-deep in twigs and
leaves. "It's crunchy on top," he tossed the litter in the air,
"but it's soft beneath." Then he kicked up his feet and slid to the
low point. "Come on," he cried.