“Jonas, meet my stepbrother Conrad. He is living with us temporarily while his mother decides whether or not she wants him back. I have a horrible feeling we’re going to be stuck with him forever.”
“You wish,” Conrad said. And though I had ended up on the low road, the genuine look of pain on his face was almost worth my tampon humiliation.
“Come,” I said to Jonas. “Let’s go tell your brothers what happened.”
* * *
—
That summer Jonas became my shadow. When I swam or canoed across the pond to go to the ocean, he’d be waiting for me on the shore, knowing I’d appear. When, instead, I walked to the beach along the path through the woods, I would find him sitting on a fallen tree trunk, drawing in the little sketch pad he always carried with him—a broken branch on a pitch pine, a darkling beetle. It was as if he had an internal compass—a magnetic field that picked up true north. Or maybe, like a carrier pigeon, he could smell my odor on the wind.
Sometimes he would point out coyote scat or a trail leading into the bearberry hollows, where the low brush still held the imprint of a deer. We spent most days lying in the hot sand on the wide empty ocean beach, daring each other to swim out too far at high tide, riding the waves, trying not to get taken by the undertow. Often we didn’t even talk. But when we did, we talked about everything.
I knew our friendship made no sense. I wasn’t a loner, or even lonely. Becky was down the road, and I had Anna. I was fourteen and a half, he was twelve. But for some reason that summer, when so many things were falling away, when I began to feel like prey, Jonas made me feel safe.
We were an odd pair. Me—tall, pale, plodding around in Dr. Scholl’s and a bikini, hiding my uncomfortable breasts and new curves under fray-collared shirts I’d inherited from my father. Jonas, easily a foot shorter, always barefoot, in the same filthy green shorts and Allman Brothers T-shirt he wore every single day. Once when I suggested this habit was repulsive and that a washing machine might help, he shrugged and told me swimming in the sea and the ponds was antiseptic.
“Also,” he said, “you’re being extremely rude.”
“I’m being maternal,” I said. “I feel responsible for you.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“I know,” I said. “You’re a child.”
“So are you,” he said.
“Not anymore.”
“Meaning?”
The second I opened my mouth I wanted to punch myself. “Nothing,” I said. “I’m just older than you.”
Jonas wouldn’t let me off the hook. “No. You said you are no longer a child, but I am. You don’t have to hang around with me if you don’t want to. I’m not your responsibility.”
“Stop acting like a baby.”
“Apparently, I am a baby,” Jonas said.
“Fine. Whatever,” I said. “I’m a woman now, as my mother keeps telling me. It honestly makes me want to puke when she says it. ‘Eleanor, be proud. You’re a woman now.’”
He looked at me with a serious, unwavering expression. Then he reached up, put his hand on my shoulder, and gave me a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “That really does sound vile. Come on, I found something cool yesterday. By the way,” he said over his shoulder as we walked, “they teach sex ed in fifth grade, so I do understand that women bleed.”
“Gross.”
“The power to create life is a beautiful thing.”
“Oh my god!” I swatted him.
“Be proud, Eleanor, you’re a woman now,” he said in his best imitation of my mother, and ran ahead before I could tackle him to the ground.
* * *
—
Deep in the woods, in a grove of locusts, Jonas had discovered an abandoned house, the walls and roof long ago rotted away, leaving only the stone outline of two small rooms. Wild roses and woodbine had tangled themselves over everything. We jumped the low walls and stood in the center of what had once been someone’s home. Jonas found a stick and scratched at a bump in the sandy soil until he unearthed a sapphire-blue bottle, worn like beach glass. He cleared a space on the floor and we lay down beside each other, looking up at the white mackerel clouds. I closed my eyes and listened to the whisper of the pines, smelled the samphire and juniper. It was comfortable lying there with him in the quiet. Silent but connected, conversing without words—as if we could hear each other’s thoughts and so had no need to speak them aloud.
“Do you suppose this is where the marital bed was?” Jonas asked after a while.
“You’re such a peculiar child.”
“I was just thinking how lovely this spot is, and that we could rebuild the house and live here when we get married.”
“Okay, first of all, you’re twelve. And second of all, stop being weird,” I said.
“When we’re older, our age difference won’t matter. It barely matters now.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jonas said.
“Fine,” I said. “But I want a double boiler.”
* * *
—
“My brothers tease me about you,” Jonas said one afternoon as I walked him home from the pond. I knew his brothers a bit: Elias was sixteen. He and Anna had taken sailing lessons together two summers ago, and one time they had kissed during a round of spin the bottle. Hopper was my age, fourteen. Tall, with thick red hair and freckles. We’d said hello once or twice at the Friday-night yacht club dances, but that was it.
“They tease you because I’m old enough to be your babysitter. And they’re kind of right. It is a bit weird.”
“Hopper has a crush on you,” Jonas said now. “I think that may be why he’s giving me such a difficult time. Though I don’t suppose that explains Elias’s behavior.”
I laughed. “Hopper? I’ve barely ever spoken to him.”
“You should ask Hopper to dance sometime,” Jonas said. “Look.” He crouched down and picked up a tiny blue eggshell that had fallen into the tall grasses on the roadside. “The robins are back.” He handed it to me carefully. It was weightless, paper-thin. “I was worried the jays had chased them all away.”
“Why would I be nice to him when he’s being a jerk to you?”
“He’s only being a jerk because he sees me as a threat.”
“What I should do is tell him to stop teasing you.”
“Please don’t,” Jonas said. “That would be humiliating.”
We slowed as we came to a bend in the road. Beyond it was the Gunthers’ house—the only property in the Back Woods with a keep-out fence around its perimeter. The Gunthers were odd. Austrian. They kept to themselves. They were both sculptors. Sometimes I would meet them on the road when they were walking their two German shepherds. The dogs terrified me. When anyone walked past the house they would come to the edge of the fence, barking and salivating. Once, one of the dogs had gotten loose and bitten Becky on the leg.
As we neared the Gunthers’ driveway, I could already hear the dogs barking, racing down the hill toward us.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll ask him. But I seriously doubt he thinks of you as a threat.” I laughed.
Normally, when we passed the Gunthers’ house, we ran. But now Jonas stopped dead in the middle of the road. “Thank you, Elle, for clarifying that.”
The dogs had reached the fence and were frantic, angry. They threw themselves against it, not used to being ignored.
“We need to move,” I said. “They’re going to break through the fence.” But Jonas just stood there while the dogs upped their pitch. “Jonas!”
“I can make it home from here on my own,” he said coldly. And headed down the road away from me.
At the top of the hill, Mr. Gunther emerged from his studio. “Astrid! Frida!” he called to his dogs. “Herkommen! Jetzt!�
�
When I walked to the beach the next day, Jonas never appeared.
“Dad,” Conrad says, “did you know Eleanor is a cradle snatcher? She’s in love with a ten-year-old.”
It’s late in the summer. Mum has gone to the dump before it shuts. Leo is at the sink, deboning a bluefish he caught this morning—they’ve been running up the coast, churning the waters close to shore.
“He’s just some kid who follows me around. And he’s twelve, not ten,” I say, but I can feel my cheeks turning red.
“Who follows you?” Leo asks. He’s been on tour with some jazz band most of the month. I’m glad he’s here. Mum is much happier when Leo is home.
“That kid Jonas who’s always hanging around,” Conrad says. “He’s Elle’s boyfriend.”
“That’s nice,” Leo says, disappearing into the pantry.
I hear things falling. Leo curses.
“Stop being a jerk. He’s just a little kid,” I shove my chair away from the table and clear my plate.
“Exactly,” Conrad says. “Cradle snatcher.”
“Does anyone know where your mother hides the Saran wrap?” Leo calls out. “Why does she keep buying wax paper? Who uses wax paper?”
Anna has been sitting on the sofa trying to put her puzzle ring back together. Now she looks up, smelling blood in the water. “Wow, Conrad,” she says. “Jealous, much?” She smiles. “I think Conrad has a crush on you, Elle.”
Conrad’s face twists into an odd shape. He forces a laugh.
“What do you think, Elle?” Anna says. “Do you like Conrad? He wants you to be his girlfriend.”
“Stop it, Anna,” I say. “That’s repulsive.” And yet I feel a disconcerting ding of recognition, as if what she has said reminds me of something I already know but can’t remember.
“Screw you,” Conrad spits at Anna.
She can sense his weakness and circles in for the kill. “Incest is quite a few levels worse than cradle snatching, Con.”
Conrad leaps up and grabs Anna’s arm hard. “Shut up. Shut up or I’ll break it.”
“Calm. Down,” Anna says, baiting him. “I’m only trying to help. I want to make sure you know it’s a sin before you do anything you’ll regret.”
Leo walks out onto the porch just as Conrad punches Anna in the face.
“Conrad!” In two strides he is there, grabbing his son by the shirt, pulling him off Anna with his huge, fish-smelly hands. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” He drags his son across the porch, shoves him out the door so hard that Conrad falls to the ground. “Get up!”
We watch as Conrad tries to fight back his tears.
“Baby,” Anna says with a snide smile. She goes back to the couch and picks up her book, keeps reading as if she has no idea she has just set the house on fire.
* * *
—
Dixon’s end-of-the-season beach picnic has always been my favorite night of the summer. The whole Back Woods gathers for a massive bonfire at Higgins Hollow. We collect crisp sun-blackened seaweed from the tidemark for tinder, drag gnarled driftwood into a pile, watch the fire spit embers into the night sky. Everyone dances and sings. At dusk, we light sparklers and run around like fireflies. The grown-ups drink too much. We spy on them from the dunes and play capture the flag. People cook lobster and steamers in enormous speckled-enamel pots, wrap seawater-soaked raw corn in tinfoil and throw it onto the fire.
We are hamburger people. My mother always insists on bringing sweet relish, mustard, and raw onions that make her breath unbearable. She passes around radishes with salt as if they are some kind of delicacy.
This year, Conrad isn’t allowed to come. He’s been grounded for a week. He begs his father not to leave him behind. Even Mum tries to convince Leo to change his mind, but he won’t budge.
“God knows he has been extremely difficult lately,” Mum says. They are getting out of the pond after a swim.
Anna and I are sitting on the porch eating strawberry ice cream.
“And must his room smell of feet at all times? Isn’t there something he can do for that? That athlete’s foot remedy they sell might help, don’t you think? I gave him a bottle of talcum powder, but he says it makes him itchy. You need to talk to him.”
I watch Leo dry himself off with a towel as if he’s buffing a large white car. His bathing suit is saggy, and his belly jiggles as the towel moves back and forth. He looks like a big toddler. Leo isn’t much of a swimmer, but my mother has him on a new exercise regime.
“It can’t be easy for him in this house, Leo. All these women. You’ve been away nearly half the summer. It’s hard belonging to a family that isn’t your own. He needs you to take his side.”
“What he needs is to understand the consequences of his actions.”
“What you’re doing is alienating him even more. It just makes it harder on all of us.”
“This isn’t about you and the girls, Wallace. It’s about my son.”
“Let him come. It makes him so happy to do the Bear Hunt with you. It’s a tradition.”
“No son of mine gets away with hitting a girl,” Leo says.
“She probably deserved it,” Mum says.
* * *
—
I lie in bed the next morning looking up at the skylight. A misting of yellow pollen has collected at the edges. We need a good rain to clear it. It’s been blue skies for days. I watch a spider fiddling around in its web. A desiccated moth hangs from a single loose filament, swaying with each bit of breeze. My hair smells of bonfire smoke and ketchup. Someone is taking a shower. A rush of water splatters on dry leaves. The water groans to a stop. Conrad curses as he steps on a catbrier. I pick up my book and open to the dog-ear. It will take a few minutes for the hot water tank to refill.
Our camp only has the one shower, attached to a smallish tree outside the bathroom house and enclosed by a weathered stockade fence that’s always crawling with daddy longlegs. No one uses the rotting shaker pegs to hang their towels. We hang them over the lower branches of the tree. A stream of soapy water runs directly from your body onto the leaves and out to the path, pine needles swirling in its wake, so we have a strict no-peeing-in-the-shower rule. Otherwise, the path to the bathroom starts to smell like the back of a Greyhound bus.
After ten minutes, I grab my towel and my Wella Balsam conditioner. There’s a soapy puddle in my way, slowly seeping into the ground. I jump across it and land with a splatter on its far edge, covering myself in what I instantly realize is pee water. I storm back down the path and bang on my mother’s cabin door.
She appears a few seconds later, pulling on her bathrobe, looking exhausted. “Leo is sleeping,” she whispers.
“Do you smell that?” I hold out my leg.
“Eleanor, I’m not in the mood to smell you,” she says. “It was a late night. One too many gin and tonics.”
“Conrad peed in the shower.”
“Well, at least he’s bathing. That’s a plus.”
“Mom. It’s disgusting. I stepped in it.”
“I’ll talk to him. But he’s already being punished, so God knows what good it will do.”
“Why does he even have to be here?”
My mother comes outside, closing the cabin door behind her. “You know, maybe if you and Anna were nicer to Conrad, he wouldn’t behave this way.” She rubs her temples. “Can you go to the kitchen and bring me water and an aspirin?”
“Why is he our problem? Why can’t he go back to Memphis to live with his own family?”
“We are his family.”
“I’m not.”
“Just try, Elle. For Leo.” She looks back into the room to make sure Leo is asleep. “Invite him for a swim occasionally. Ask him to play Parcheesi. It won’t kill you.”
“He cheats. And he can’t even make it to the middle of the po
nd.”
“Try. For me.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll ask him to come to the beach today. But if he acts like a jerk, you owe me a hundred dollars.”
“I might as well pay you now.” My mother sighs. “But thank you.”
* * *
—
The remains of last night’s bonfire are still smoldering in the sand. Someone has made a barricade of driftwood around it to keep people from burning their feet. There’s a paper plate lying facedown, a few half-buried corncobs.
“So?” Conrad asks. “Was it fun?”
“Yes.”
“Who was there?”
“The usual suspects.”
Conrad flicks sand at the paper plate with his big toe. It makes a whisking noise as it lands, slides. “Did my dad do the Bear Hunt?”
“Of course.”
Conrad looks upset. “Who was the dog?”
“I don’t know. One of the kids. Sorry you couldn’t come,” I force myself to say.
We spread out our towels well above the waterline. The tide is coming in. I sit down and take a sweating can of Fresca out of my bag. When I pull the pop-top, the ring breaks off in my hand, leaving the metal teardrop sealed shut.
“Give me that,” Conrad says, and stabs the can open with a sharp piece of shell, hands it back to me.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want to go in?” Conrad asks.
“I need to get hot first. I might not go in at all. The surf looks rough.”
“I thought you liked it rough,” Conrad says, and laughs at his own bad joke.
I ignore him and open my book. He sits there, scratching a mosquito bite on his leg. After a while he gets up and walks toward the water. I lie down on my stomach, relieved that he’s gone. Close my eyes and rest my head on my arms. I’m drifting off when I feel something wet drop on my back.
“Look what I found,” Conrad says. “I think you and Jonas left it here last night.”
The Paper Palace Page 14
