Some Kind of Happiness (10 page)

Grandma places a soft hand on my arm. Her wedding ring is warm with sunlight. “Yes, this is Finley. Finley, this is Roxann Bates. We help at the library together.”

“Your grandma's the
best
,” says Roxann Bates, beaming. “You look like her, you know. Oh! Here. It's not much, but I
hope it helps!” She drops a ten-dollar bill into our donation bucket.

Grandma smiles. “Thank you, Roxann, that's very generous.”

“Anything for you, Candace!” She kisses Grandma's cheek. “See you on Thursday?”

“Of course.”

Roxann Bates hurries away, calling out someone else's name and waving frantically. When the sun hits her, the glitter on her T-shirt shines a silvery pink.

Every now and then someone passing by the table takes a flyer, donates money, or says hello to Grandma, but mostly it is just me and her. I keep checking to make sure I am sitting as straight as she is.

You look like her, you know.

What an odd thing to say. Grandma is old and has white hair. I am young and have blond hair. Grandma wears just the right shade of lipstick. I do not know what forks to use. How could I possibly look like her?

She starts humming the song we were listening to in the car. I want to say something, but I don't know what. Then I blurt, “Ray Charles?”

Grandma stops humming to look at me. “Pardon me?”

“Um. Ray Charles.” My cheeks feel sunburned even though we are safely in the shade. “Isn't that what you were singing?”

“No, actually, that was Jimmy Reed. Are you a fan of the blues?”

“I don't think so. I'm not sure. I mean, I don't know a lot of the songs.”

“Ah.”

We sit there, staring at each other. I know I should say something, but I don't know what. I am distracted by Grandma's sharp blue eyes.

What does she see when she looks at me?

I tuck some hair behind my ear. I should have combed it better this morning. Grandma's is in a soft, neat bun.

“Dad says all of you listened to Ray Charles. When he was growing up.”

Out of everything to say, I have to bring up Dad.

Grandma's mouth twists into a funny shape, like she has heard something strange and does not know what to make of it.

“He said that, did he?” Grandma straightens the stack of flyers for the seventh time today. “Well, yes, we did do that.”

I wipe my palms on my pants. It occurs to me that most people are probably not this terrified of their grandmothers.

But do most grandmothers avoid talking about their sons at dinner?

Do most grandmothers keep secrets, like why their granddaughter has never visited?

Then Grandma says, “We had so many parties, in the summer especially.” She pauses; a group of children laugh, chasing one another through the parking lot. She folds her hands on the table, puts them in her lap, returns them to the table.

“Not big parties,” she says, “not with anyone else. Just family. We would open the windows and string up lights on the patio. Your grandfather grilled burgers, and we'd turn up Ray Charles and Jimmy Reed and Bessie Smith and B. B. King. The girls would put their hair in rollers, wear face masks and old dresses from the attic. They'd do it to feel fancy. Old-fashioned Hollywood glamour.”

Grandma smiles, her voice quiet. “There'd be fireflies in the azaleas, and we would dance and eat for hours, and the music would fill up the woods. We only went inside late, when the mosquitoes got bad. Sometimes not even then.”

My heart is in a race with itself. I can see it so clearly that it is like I was there, years ago: Aunt Bridget, Aunt Dee, Stick. Kids like me, all of them short and small. Dad, with his floppy hair. Our photo albums at home have some pictures of him looking like that—but they are always pictures of him alone. No sisters. No parents.

Grandma stares at her hands. “I miss him, Finley.”

I feel like I am standing on the edge of a cliff. “You mean . . . Dad?”

“We did what we had to do. I thought your father could understand, but . . . I never wanted him to stay away.
He
chose that. Not me.
He
decided we weren't good enough for him. Do you understand?”

Have her hands been shaking this whole time? Or have they just started?

“Yes,” I whisper, although I understand nothing. What did she
have
to do?
Why did Dad stay away? Why did he keep
me
away?

Grandma turns to look at me, and I feel like I am actually seeing her now. Like what she has shown me before is a Grandma mask, and this is what lies beneath.

I open my mouth to say one of several possible things:

Grandma, what has happened to your face? Your makeup suddenly looks all wrong on it.

Grandma, what did Dad do? Was it something he did?

Grandma, tell me more about your blues parties. Tell me more about my dad when he was little.

Tell me why we never visited. If you miss him, why don't you ever talk to him?

My hair falls into my eyes again, and Grandma brushes it away. What does she see when she looks at me?

“Sorry,” I mumble. “My hair's kind of messy.”

“Lewis's always was too.”

“Excuse me.” A tired-looking man comes up to the table. Two small boys hang off his leg, and he's giving another one a piggyback ride. “Are you Candace Hart? The backpack lady?”

Grandma's face fills with a silver-bright smile. “That's me.”

“My kids' teacher told me about your program. Where do I sign up?”

I watch Grandma talk to this man. She holds one of the kids on her lap while the man fills out three forms. She lets them pick out pencils and helps put the pins on their T-shirts. She shakes the man's hand and straightens the kids' collars.
When one of them hugs her legs, she bends over and hugs him right back. While they walk away, she watches them go, and she waves when they get to the swing set.

“Candace Hart!” A woman waves from the snack table. “I knew you'd be here! Come here, tell me what's new!”

“Watch the table, Finley,” Grandma instructs without looking at me. “And tie your shoe, won't you, please?”

As I watch Grandma head for the snack table, I wonder which is more true:

The Grandma who knows everyone, who scrubs pans that are already clean, who runs organizations and holds messy kids with crooked collars in her lap.

Or the Grandma with shaking hands and a tired face. The Grandma who hates the Baileys because their house is an embarrassment.

The Grandma who misses her son.

That night I dream of fireflies, and of Dad dancing with Grandma in the Everwood beside the old castle in the gray field. When I wake up the next morning, the dream feels thick around me, like a scratchy blanket too heavy for the summer.

I find my notebook and start to write a new list.

WHY MY DAD LEFT THE FAMILY

• Because he was called away on an adventure that required him to sacrifice all personal ties.

■ But then he got married, so that can't be it.

♦ Unless . . . am I part of some secret international plot? (Unlikely.)

• Because they wanted him to take over Grandpa's business with Uncle Reed, but he didn't want to. (But why would that be a secret?)

• Because he was different. (Like me.)

B
UILDING A TREE HOUSE IS
more difficult than I had anticipated, but it had to be done. No quest is complete without a base of operations.

However, even with Grandpa's supervision, what we end up with on Tuesday is something more like a tree . . . patio.

Once we nail the final board into place, we all step back for inspection.

Grandpa is the first to speak.

“Well,” he says, scratching his chin, “now that is something.”

Specifically, it is a platform three feet off the ground, built around a cluster of three thick trees. There is a slanted roof, and it has walls on two sides. Steps lead up to the front, with a rope ladder hanging off the back.

It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

“It's ugly,” Ruth announces. “I thought it would be, you know, up
high
. In the
trees
. It's supposed to be a
watchtower
.”

“Oh, come on, Ruthie.” Kennedy adjusts the bandana tied around Ruth's head. “This way you can go inside without asking someone for permission.”

“You can also fall off it without breaking your neck,” Gretchen points out.

Ruth frowns. “But it's not high enough to
see
anything!”

“I'll tear it down, then.” Grandpa approaches the steps with his crowbar. “If you're not going to appreciate it, that is.”

I am happy to hear a collective gasp of horror.

“That's what I thought.” Grandpa turns to me. “Now, remember the ground rules: Not one inch outside the pit, like Grandma said.”

“Yes, sir,” we all say.

“And you won't let the twins climb around here by themselves?”

“No, sir.”

Grandpa looks at each of us like he is searching for evidence of a lie. Gretchen stares back so intensely that I almost crack up. Dex picks his nose and inspects the findings.

Satisfied, Grandpa nods. “Well, then. Go nuts. But not
too
nuts. And take your shoes off before you come in for dinner.”

Gretchen asks, “What if we
didn't
? What then?”

“Apocalypse, probably.”

Once Grandpa has packed up his tools and gone back into the house, I climb inside what we have named the Tower and hang the shoe Gretchen and I found from the ceiling by its laces. It dangles over the center of the floor like a bizarre chandelier.

Doing this gives me a moment to think.

Everyone else is going home after dinner, but Gretchen has talked Stick into letting her stay at Hart House for the rest of the week.

On the one hand, out of everyone, Gretchen is the person I know best.

On the other hand, I have spent the past two days building a tree patio with five other people, one of whom is Grandpa, who wears button-down shirts even while building tree patios in the dirt—and I feel a bit like I am crawling inside my own skin.

I keep thinking about what Grandma said at the park: about missing Dad, that
he
was the one who chose to stay away.

What does Grandpa think about Dad? Does he miss Dad too? Dad said they talk on the phone—but about what? And how often? And what do they say when they hang up? Do they say
I love you
? What would those words sound like, coming out of Grandpa's mouth?

I want to ask him about these things, but whenever I imagine doing so, I freeze up.

I have always been better at writing things than saying them.

“I'm going for a walk,” I say, casually, hoping no one will follow. Just a walk, to clear my head. That is all I need.

“Oh, me too!” Gretchen loops her arm through mine.

I try to pull away. “Gretchen, really, it's no big deal—”

Then Gretchen tenses up beside me. I see him too.

It's that Bailey boy, the medium-sized one. He is crouched behind a stump a few yards away.

And he is holding our stash of valuables. Gretchen's dolphin. Kennedy's medal.

My list of words.

I am seized by righteous anger.

It was Gretchen's idea to bring the stash out here, to christen our headquarters, even though I protested.

How did the Bailey boy slip past all of us without anyone seeing him?

Gretchen's hands are in fists. “Give that back.
Now.
”

The boy grins, winks, and takes off in the other direction.

Into the Everwood. With
our stuff
.

Gretchen growls an extremely forbidden word under her breath.

I have to agree. “We can't let him get away with this.”

Gretchen snorts. “Oh, don't worry. He won't.” She yells, “Back in a sec!” over her shoulder.

Kennedy whirls. “Wait,
what
—?”

But we ignore her. We don't stop to think about Grandma or Grandpa seeing us. We run.

We scoot across the First Bridge, jump over ridges and weave through trees, skid down slopes of mud and leaves like surfers.

The Bailey boy's laughter floats back to us. Trying to catch him is like trying to catch a shadow.

“We're losing him!” Gretchen shouts. “Come on, Fin!”

I have never run like this in my life. We're practically flying, dodging tree roots and fallen logs like they're nothing. My breathing starts to burn, and my side aches.

Then Gretchen skids to a halt. “Oh
man
.”

I catch my breath and blink hard against the sun. We have reached the Wasteland—the field with the old gray house.

The Bailey boy jumps onto its porch and yells back at us, “Come inside . . .
if you dare
!”