A Crooked Tree

by Una Mannion

  I lay on my side, facing the wall. Everything was confusing. Jack was embarrassed by what had happened, but was he also somehow jealous of Wilson? I thought I hated Wilson, but I had defended him to Jack. Sage had called Wilson and never told me. She had his unlisted number. She knew I didn’t want him involved, that I had wanted him to get away from us. Why were they talking so much? There was something else I couldn’t place. A realization I was trying to grasp. Thomas had told me once that this feeling, like a sixth sense, wasn’t ESP or any of that pseudoscience crap. It was another part of the sympathetic nervous system’s fight-or-flight response. It happened, he’d said, when your body knew something before your head. If you were an animal in the jungle and there was a crack of a twig or a movement in the bush, your body would perceive those things and react before your head had even processed them. It was how you survived. Like when there’s danger and your body senses it and you have a gut feeling or a bad feeling before your head understands what it is. Your body is hearing, smelling, sensing, and your instinct, based on real information, gives you the feeling you should have. Lying in bed, thinking about the night, was when this other thing took a shape I could understand. Even though I was alone in my bed in the dark, I covered my mouth with my hand. I understood now about Mrs. Boucher.

  21

  Thomas had helped Beatrice pull suitcases down from the attic. Beatrice was leaving the following morning for camp, and she was choosing which one would best hold her things.

  Thomas looked up at me when I came into the living room. He was trying to free the zipper on the smallest of the cases, which had gotten caught on the lining. And before I could say what seeing the suitcases reminded me of, he responded as if he’d heard my thoughts. “Yeah. I know.”

  The only time we’d ever had them laid out was before trips to Ireland. Dad would usually take just one of us with him because we couldn’t afford for everyone to go at the same time. When the suitcases came back from the trip, we’d put our heads inside and breathe in the smell of over there—peat fires, clothes wind-dried in sea air, freshly turned hay. The large blue-and-green-plaid one was his, the one he always took, filling it with cotton sheets, coveralls, socks and underwear he bought in Sears for his brothers and sisters, big tins of Folgers coffee, and reading glasses for half the village. The weeks before he was going home, he’d always be busy shopping for everyone he could think of. Tool kits for a brother, full dish set for a sister. The suitcase had carried so much.

  It was usually this time of year he’d be going over, when the sun was so hot that it stunted the grass and he could get away from the lawns for a week or two. Whenever I thought we had nothing of his, I was forgetting the suitcases in the attic.

  “Look what else I found.” Thomas nodded toward a small case, plastic but with a pattern that was made to look like it had a weave. It had a handle at the top and a flap that snapped at the bottom. Dad’s Sony reel-to-reel tape recorder. It must have been seven or eight years since I’d seen it. He’d bought it in the early 1960s, maybe when Marie was a baby. Every New Year’s Eve he would bring it out, and at midnight we would each say something into the microphone. We hadn’t done it since Beatrice was born. “The tapes are there, too.” There was a pile of square boxes that held the reels of tape. Each was labeled with names and dates in Dad’s scrawled cursive.

  “Is Mom home from work yet?” I asked.

  “No. And after she’s getting stuff on Beatrice’s camp list.”

  “A flashlight, batteries, and insect repellent,” Beatrice started listing. “A canteen for when we hike in the mountains. Did you even know there were mountains in the South?”

  “Where do you think the Appalachians and the Blue Ridge Mountains go, you idiot? Isn’t your teacher teaching you any geography?” Thomas slid the suitcase back toward Beatrice, who was sitting cross-legged, watching him. “Try that now.”

  Beatrice slid the zip up and down and then stood, walking the perimeter of the living room carrying the empty suitcase, which was nearly the size of her.

  “Have you listened?”

  He shook his head.

  “Should we?”

  Thomas clicked open the case. It looked old-fashioned and huge compared to cassette tape recorders or even eight-tracks. He picked up a box labeled “December 31st 1972.” I had no idea how to use the machine, but Thomas put the reel on and threaded the tape through a slot at the bottom, then drew the tape up the other side, spinning it onto an empty reel. He clicked the switch. Nothing happened.

  “It’s not plugged in,” said Beatrice, marching past the couch, luggage in tow.

  Thomas plugged it in and clicked the switch again. The reels began to turn. I looked at him sitting on the floor in front of the machine, his head down, waiting. I lay on the carpet and looked the other way, so I didn’t have to watch him hearing it. At first there was nothing, and then the crackling of the record button being pressed and some whispering. A child’s voice, very young, asking “Is it on? Is it?” My father cleared his throat, making it formal as he talked to the future.

  “Hello. This is Martin Gallagher speaking from Ardmore, Pennsylvania, on the thirty-first of December 1972.” The sound of his voice in the living room reverberated against my ribs and stomach, the voice tinny and far away and more Irish than I remembered him sounding.

  “It is a mild day for this time of year. Raining and sixty-two degrees. It is eleven thirty p.m., not long before we ring in 1973. I am here with my wife, Faye, and children Marie, Thomas, Libby, and Ellen. Each one of them is going to say hello, and we’ll start with the youngest, Ellen Gallagher.” He was shy and serious. There was a pause and a muffled sound as the microphone was passed to Ellen.

  “Hello. I . . . My name is Ellen Gallagher. I’m three, and—” There was a pause. She must not have known what to do. “Happy New Year.” There was whispering behind her: “Tell them what you wish for.” She must have been holding the microphone to her mouth, because you could hear every breath. “I wish . . . I can’t remember.” There was another pause, and then the tape switched off. I would be next. Again, the sound of the recording button being switched on. I lay with my cheek on the carpet and listened.

  “Hello. I’m Libby Gallagher. I’m six and a half. In the first grade. My teacher is Miss Collins. She’s very nice. You’d like her.”

  Thomas snorted. My mom said I never shut up as a child.

  “We are learning about the planets. We have to draw our favorite planet and write a page. I picked Pluto because Thomas says that is the farthest one away from the sun, and I thought that was sad, and I chose Pluto because everything is frozen there and it is cold. And because it is the smallest.”

  “Oh my God, you’re giving a school report, you freak,” said Thomas, but we were both laughing; tears were running down my face.

  “I want to wish everyone in the world Happy New Year. My wishes are that I will get to ride a horse, get a bike, the Vietnam War would end, and that my grandmother’s cataracted eyes would get better.”

  “You’re next, Thomas,” said Beatrice, who was now sitting by the machine, too.

  The young Thomas cleared his throat just like Dad had. While I had practically shouted down the microphone, Thomas was whispering, and we strained to hear him.

  “My name is Thomas Gallagher from Ardmore, Pennsylvania. I am eight years old and am the only boy in my family. I am in the third grade at St. Colman’s Catholic school. In 1973 I wish for a telescope, and in 1973 I also wish to go fishing with my dad and maybe catch a fish or to go in a boat with him in a lake or the ocean.”

  I wanted to make a joke but didn’t trust myself to speak. His wishes made me sad.

  The tape kept rolling, and Marie had already started her recitation. “I’m Marie Gallagher. I’m nine and the eldest of all the children.”

  “So there,” said Thomas now.

  “I’m in fourth grade. I like art and music and gym class. My wish this year is that my younger brother and sisters
would behave and stop annoying me but most of all that I would get to meet the Beatles.”

  “So Marie,” I said.

  “I am now going to sing a song with my dad, Martin Gallagher.”

  I don’t think we’d ever listened back after the day itself. I remembered the ritual but not the recordings. I’d never heard my dad sing.

  “This song is called ‘In My Life,’ and it is the only Beatles song that Martin Gallagher even half likes and was willing to learn. Faye Gallagher isn’t joining us because, as Martin would say, she hasn’t a note in her head.” And they started and sang the whole song together. We were all stuck in our separate places on the living room floor, not facing each other, listening to our father and Marie sing. His voice was like those Irish singers who sound as if they’re singing through their noses, nasal and slightly shaky. It sounded like it was from a very long time ago. Marie’s small choir voice next to his was sweet, and I could hear how happy she was to be singing this song with her dad, how serious it was because it was into a microphone and being recorded. And I had no idea when they’d learned this or how. Where had I been when that was happening? Marie must have memories of us all together, and of having something like a family life, things Thomas and I were too young to remember. Her ease talking about Mom and Dad, how Martin teased Faye. I had no memories like that. Not even one.

  Thomas switched off the recording. “Shit, I wasn’t expecting that.”

  My back was still to him. “I know.”

  “I wish I could tell him stuff,” he said.

  “What stuff?” asked Beatrice. I rolled over then to look at her. She was still holding the handle of her suitcase, looking at Thomas.

  “I wish I could tell him he was a good father,” said Thomas. “I don’t think he knew.”

  I felt the same.

  “We should put them back before Mom gets home,” I said. Thomas started rewinding the tape, spinning the reel backwards with his finger. “Bea, don’t tell her we were listening to them. I don’t think she even remembers they’re up there.”

  “Can we listen to the others? Another day when I get back from camp?”

  I looked at Thomas.

  “I guess,” he said. “That’s why Dad made them.”

  I sat on the front steps, looking toward the top of the street, any minute expecting to see a black Camaro creep down the road. Sage had told Wilson about Space Port, behind my back. She’d known before I did that Jack would want the whole night forgotten, knew other stuff about him at school. I felt left out, small and resentful. Everyone was full of secrets. Sage, me, my mother. And now I knew Mrs. Boucher’s. But I wanted to be sure.

  At the top of Paul Lemen, I hesitated but kept going. I had never been on the McVays’ driveway. Even when I was selling daisies for Daisy Day, I hadn’t gone up because Wilson McVay lived there. The driveway and house were shaded by giant cottonwoods. I picked up a fallen twig as I walked toward the house. Through the glass extension I could see a large television and a fireplace and nice furniture with cushions. But outside, something about the place felt like it wasn’t cared for, a neglect not that different from our own, the way weeds grew up along the house at the back of the bedded gardens and crabgrass had overwhelmed the mulch. Impatiens had shriveled. Grass pushed through cracks in the asphalt driveway. It was a Friday afternoon, and I wondered if his parents were already home, and how would I explain what I was doing there. I looked at the front door. There was a large knocker but no bell. I had come this far. I lifted the knocker and rapped three times and waited. No one answered.

  I snapped the twig in my hand as I stepped away and looked at the star pattern in the pith. It only appears in fallen cottonwood twigs or branches, not living ones. There is a story that the night wished for stars and asked the wind for help, and the wind shook the cottonwood and the twigs fell, releasing their hidden stars.

  “What’re you doing here?” The voice came from behind, startling me. Wilson was standing there with a cloth and a tub of wax. I saw the outdoor shed, and the Yamaha. He’d seen me go up to the door.

  “Jesus, you scared me.”

  “You’re here to see my parents, then?”

  “No, obviously.” I held up the two ends of the twig. “You have cottonwood twigs on your driveway.”

  “Is there something that you want?” He seemed irritated that I was at his house, even though he repeatedly intruded on ours.

  “No. I need a favor.”

  “Did something happen? Did you see him?”

  “No, not that. I . . .”

  Wilson just stared at me, wiping grease from his hands with the cloth.

  “Will you check something for me tonight?”

  I asked him if he’d drive up Horseshoe Trail Road from the Nike site and past the Sun Bowl and see if there were any cars parked there, or anyone walking on the road. It had to be at one, not before or after. But not to go down the Bouchers’ driveway, or even look down there. Sometimes she parked at the end of her driveway at that time. And could I trust him not to say any of this to anyone, ever?

  “So you’re, like, doing the Libby Rockford Files, spying on people?”

  “Isn’t this the kind of thing you’re good at?”

  “Maybe what people do up there at night is none of your business.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  “There’s some stuff you should stay out of.” And I knew that he knew what I was looking for, and that he already knew the answer. But he was advising me on people’s privacy when he violated everyone’s privacy every day, mine especially.

  “Okay, I have to go.” I walked down his driveway and picked up two more twigs. One to show Beatrice, and one for her to take to camp. I wondered where Wilson’s dog was. “Where’s your dog?” I called back.

  “Who?”

  “Your dog. Samson.”

  “I don’t have a dog.”

  “Oh.” My heart skipped a beat. Wilson was a very convincing liar.

  By the time I got home, both Ellen and Beatrice had their suitcases packed and ready in the living room for their departure the following morning. Mom had come home with the stuff from Beatrice’s packing checklist and a set of pencils, charcoal, and a sketch pad for Ellen. She said there had been a change of plans. She’d organized for the Gambinos to pick Ellen up on Sunday instead, so that she could do the costume for Peter and go to the parade. I knew this was for me; this was her trying. I could see her watching my face for a response. It must have fallen at first—it meant another day of worrying about Barbie Man. Ellen lit up and immediately started organizing: she needed to come with me that night to babysit so she could measure Peter and resize the vest, she’d get him to try everything on, she’d figure out how to attach the sign to the bike, and could she also stay at the Sun Bowl tomorrow night for the fireworks after?

  Ellen and I walked to the Bouchers’ in silence, both of us watchful as we went up the road to cut through the trail. Coming into the tower lot, we could see the remnants of the party a few nights earlier. Under the blinking lights, the six large black circles on the gravel where the fires had burned looked like moon craters. Farther down, the trail was still blocked by branches, a few rusty bikes, and tires.

  Ellen was holding a shopping bag with Peter’s costume, needles, thread, and extra material. She had streamers and strips of fabric and rolls of colored crêpe paper and tape to decorate the bike. She should have been talking about the costume, or life with the Gambinos and Gabriel, or the art program she’d been accepted into. Instead she was guarded and nervous. I hadn’t told her that Thomas had seen Barbie Man on the mountain. Just one more day up here, and we wouldn’t have to think about it for two straight weeks. Tomorrow at the parade we’d be surrounded by people all day.

  I was worried about seeing Mrs. Boucher, worried she would read her own secret in my nervous fluster—talking too much, being jumpy. I found it hard to act normal.

  Mrs. Boucher had left Peter’s Big Wheel in the liv
ing room, and he kept trying to ride it. He was showing off in front of Ellen, who was taking the streamers and fabrics from the bag.

  Peter got off the bike and stood at the table, watching. “Are they for my bike?”

  “Yep,” said Ellen. “And you can help me, but first let’s try your costume.”

  Ellen fitted the hat, which was nearly as tall as him. The sign was laid out on the table, and Mrs. Boucher stood and watched.

  “Ah, that’s clever, Ellen. Dr. Seuss. You see the world like an artist.”

  Ellen blushed with pleasure.

  I didn’t know what Mrs. Boucher’s life had been like with Mr. Boucher. Having seen him with his new fiancée and talked to him a few times, I couldn’t imagine it had been good. He seemed superficial and interested in himself. Maybe it was hard for her up here, a house deep in the woods, alone with the kids. Now that I thought about it, my mother and Mrs. Boucher weren’t that different. Sage’s words came back to me: Don’t you want her to be happy? Mrs. Boucher was young, probably still in her twenties. She had a job that was a profession. But that didn’t make her entitled to an affair, and not my mother. Mrs. Boucher said she was a feminist, which Mom definitely wasn’t. But that confused me, too. If Mrs. Boucher believed in the best for women, why would she hurt another one so deeply?

  Mrs. Boucher hugged Bruce, who was lying on the sofa, watching Ellen work. “Good night, my littlest chick.” She turned to Peter. “And you—you behave for Ellen and stop running around like a wild man.” She stood and watched Ellen for a moment. She seemed tired or sad about something, and I already regretted spying on her. She smoothed her dress with her hands. “Okay, then. I’m off. Good night, girls.”

  Mrs. Boucher left. I brought Bruce to bed while Ellen and Peter worked on the floor, weaving strips of red, white, and blue crêpe paper around the Big Wheel. Peter was wearing his Dr. Seuss hat, with red, white, and blue streamers coming out of the top. Ellen had used pipe cleaners to get the streamers to stick up a bit.