He is serious, but their mother laughs. “My mom and dad had this game forever.”
Cooper hands out the wooden trays. He shakes the bag of letters and takes one. The letter T. “I have selected an alveolar.”
“A what?” Caddie says.
“An alveolar.” He shows Caddie the letter. “A sound made with the tip of the tongue carefully placed against the teeth. Like this: tuh,” he says, exaggerating with his tongue. “The letter T is an alveolar.”
“Tuh,” she says with a sneer, shaking her head. She sticks her tongue out past her teeth as far as she can. “I’m not playing if you keep doing that.”
“Now, Caddie,” their mother says.
Caddie raises an eyebrow. She really can raise just one.
Caddie pulls the letter A from the bag. “Ha! I go first!”
“Going clockwise, you’re next, Cooper,” their mother says. “And I’m last.”
Caddie counts out seven new letters. So does Cooper. And their mother. Caddie spells “CEMENT,” placing the N on the black star in the center of the board.
Cooper sees his play instantly: with Caddie’s C he can make “ACQUIRES” and use all his letters for eighty-eight points.
“What did you get?” their mother asks.
“Twenty-six,” Caddie says. As she turns the board toward Cooper, the letters of “CEMENT” shift out of line.
No, no, no. Cooper moves the C back to its little square, then the first E, then the M. Every time he touches one letter, another one moves. No, no, no. He imagines a fourth tray of letters right next to his. A tray for That Boy.
Caddie presses her fingertips hard on the edge of the game board. “I’ll play upside down from now on,” she says. “Then the pieces won’t move so much.”
But he can’t help it. That Boy has hold of his hand. He moves the second E into its space, looks at Caddie. She smiles at him—right into his eyes—but he looks away. “Okay, Cooper?” That Boy touches the N. “Okay?” Caddie says again, mad growing in her voice like a swelling balloon, a balloon about to pop. “Please?”
But That Boy won’t look at her. That Boy doesn’t like to be told what to do. He puts his finger on the T. Holds it steady.
“Cooper!”
“Okay,” he says, and then he lays down Q-U-I to spell “QUIT” across the end of “CEMENT” for only fourteen points because he knows how much Caddie hates to lose.
“I say we all go into town for pizza tonight,” their mother says.
“Anything to get out of here,” Caddie says.
They play until the rain stops and the sun hints again at daytime. They play until they are hungry. They play until Caddie spells “ZITHERS” and “SNAKES” using all her letters for fifty bonus points and the bag of letters is empty.
Cooper puts his fist to his mouth like a microphone and lowers his voice. “Here she comes. It’s Caddie Girl up from behind. Making the rounds on the inner circle.” He leans over his mother’s shoulder and watches her tally their final scores. He thrusts his fist into the air in victory. “One hundred ninety-seven points to Mama Ellen’s one hundred eighty-four points. Caddie Girl has won by a nose. And here comes Cooper Boy, bringing up the rear with one hundred and fifty-six points. It’s amazing. Simply amazing. No one could have predicted such an outcome!”
Caddie laughs so hard she snorts and spit flies from her mouth. She grabs a paper napkin from the napkin holder. Their mother stands and dances in a circle. Cooper watches them, puts his hand to his mouth to stop his smile. He wants to smile, knowing Caddie and his mother can pretend it has always been like this wonderful moment. And it really, truly is like this wonderful moment.
Sometimes wonderful sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
“It’s a miracle,” Cooper says.
Thunder cracks. Rain pours down in sheets.
“It’s raining again,” Caddie says, and this time she laughs.
Until brakes squeak on the main road at the end of the driveway.
Their mother stops dancing.
Caddie turns.
Cooper looks too.
Together they watch through the small window. Through the steady gray rain.
The Father’s fancy black car rolls down the driveway, winding between the trees, windshield wipers snapping back and forth, quick and angry.
Sometimes something happens so suddenly you are not prepared for the shock of ordinary things.
“I guess I better get dinner started,” their mother says.
“So much for pizza,” Caddie says.
Cooper drops back in his chair at the dining room table. His elbow catches on the corner of the game. Bounces the board. Tiles fly like popping corn. He hurries to put the letters back in their squares, back in line, back where they belong. Hurries to make the broken words whole again.
“It’s okay, Coop,” Caddie says. “The game’s over. Just put them back in the bag.” She scoops up a handful of letters. “That was fun,” she says.
Cooper shakes his head. Their fun is nothing but a mess. A mess that makes Cooper’s insides quake.
That Boy takes over, picking up the letters. Lining up the trays. Looking to the top of the armoire to put the game away.
The black car parks beneath the tall pine trees. The engine stops. Cooper hurries.
Sometimes everything starts when everything stops.
Cooper cannot put the game away without a chair to climb on.
The car door slams.
There is no time to get a chair.
Cooper jumps.
Arms overhead, both hands on the game, he jumps again. Brushes the top of the armoire with the box. Jumps with all his might. Pushes the game into place. Pushes again until the game lines up edge to edge with the top of the armoire. Until the game bumps into the stack of puzzles.
A box shifts.
Soars.
Opens.
A spray of jigsaw puzzle cascades around him. Like rain.
Like rain, one thousand machine-perfect pieces of Flags of the World in authentic color fall to the floor.
Outside, stiff shoes slide across the cement walk. “Damn rain,” The Father says.
Fault
For five fast breaths, the puzzle spill is beautiful. Dangerously beautiful. Like blue flames. Like sun dogs. Like hurricanes in a swirl before they strike land. Before they become chaos and panic. Before fear sets in. Before someone might trip and fall.
Or burn up.
Or get mad.
“You better hurry and pick up that mess,” Caddie says.
Cooper can’t move. He glances at the box, opened and upside down. Like a dead squirrel on the sidewalk. One wrong move and splat. You’re dead. Nothing you can do about it.
In the rubble, he spots a dot of green. Like shrapnel. He recognizes the fragment of a cedar tree. The flag of Lebanon. Knows there is more. Another branch. A whole canopy. Cooper shudders. That Boy has already beaten him to it. That Boy will have to find the pieces. All of them. He must make the broken tree whole.
“Here,” Caddie says. She hands Cooper the box with one hand, holds a clump of puzzle pieces with the other. Another handful. And another. She puts the lid on the box. On the box of broken trees, ripped flags, and shattered crests. That Boy is scared. Worried. Frustrated.
“You missed some,” Cooper says, dropping to his hands and knees. Caddie takes the box. Lifts the lid.
Cooper adds three more pieces to the pile. “Set it on the dining room table. Hurry. I have to fix it.”
“But Dad’s here,” Caddie says. “For dinner.”
Dad. The Father. He likes things just so.
Just so. Just so. Just so.
“There,” Cooper says, pointing at the big coffee table. “Put it there.” He crawls across the floor, picking up the few remaining scattered pieces. Two fire-red shards of Japan’s single-dot flag hang together. He will start with the red sun of Japan.
The screen door squeaks open. Snaps shut.
“Hi, Dad,
” Caddie says.
Cooper has spotted one more puzzle piece. A yellow one. Under the big coffee table.
“And how are things in the great north woods?” The Father says. He cuts through the living room, past the big coffee table. Cooper crawls out with the piece in his hand. The tassel of a flag. “So there you are, Cooper.” The Father sets his suitcase down on the hearth. “Has it been raining the whole time?”
Cooper cannot answer. Cannot breathe. The shattered puzzle is his responsibility. He must put it together. Make it perfect. He cannot let anyone down. Especially The Father.
“The sun’s coming out, see?” Caddie says.
Cooper does not look up. His fingers comb through the box, searching and searching for more red and white pieces.
Their mother calls from the pantry, “I thought you couldn’t come this weekend.”
“Don’t tell me I drove all this way to be told I’m not welcome.” The Father sits down in the big leather chair by the fireplace. Grandpa’s chair.
The chair wheezes.
Cooper listens for mad in The Father’s voice.
The Father loosens his tie.
Cooper gasps for air.
He cannot find the right red pieces for the flag of Japan. Knows they are in the box. He recognizes the gold filigree of Costa Rica’s coat of arms. A bit of light blue. Maybe the ocean field of Fiji.
“I just mean I didn’t expect you, or I would have planned better.” Cooper’s mother’s voice sounds small and breakable. “Something besides spaghetti.” She steps into the living room, dish towel in hand. Stops. “That’s my dad’s chair.”
“I know it’s your dad’s chair.”
Mad is there. Loud and clear.
“I won’t hurt it,” The Father says.
Piled puzzle pieces topple like tall buildings in an earthquake. The coffee table is covered with debris. That Boy must excavate. Find the survivors. He lines up the pieces. Sorts them by greens. By blues. By yellows and golds.
“Is spaghetti okay?” Cooper hears his mother ask in her small voice.
“None for me, thanks,” The Father says. “I’ll just relax with a glass of wine. Save my appetite for a big breakfast before Cooper and I go fishing tomorrow morning. Just the two of us.”
The Father’s voice, like the chirps of a singing bird, sounds happy. But Cooper knows The Father is not happy. The Father’s call is a warning. That Boy better not come with us.
Now reds appear. Only reds. The puzzle piece pile has started to bleed.
“Whaddya say, Coop? Mom says you’re a lot better up here.”
The puzzle pieces blur to nothingness. Cooper feels the sudden tug on the end of his line. Watches his fishing rod bow toward the water. Hears his grandfather’s voice. “You’ve got one! Now reel it in, my boy. Nice and steady.”
Cooper reels. Reels and reels. “It’s a big one,” Grandpa says, pipe smoke swirling around his head in the cool morning air. “Pull it in! Pull it in!”
Grandpa is right. The fish is a big one. Cooper’s arms tremble. Grandpa reaches for the rod. Pulls with all his might.
The rod snaps.
The fish gets away.
And Grandpa . . .
Grandpa falls.
As if he has pushed a replay button, Cooper sees everything all over again. Grandpa grabs an oar. When it slips through his fingers, he grabs the side of the boat. His pipe falls from his mouth. Embers fall from the pipe and roll down his shirt. Cooper scoops water from the lake. Splashes it on Grandpa’s burning shirt. He stands up. The boat tips.
Cooper watches everything in the movie in slow motion—the ambulance and the flashing lights. The paramedics. The oxygen mask. The last beat of his grandfather’s heart.
His mother’s hands at her face.
Caddie crying.
Himself, shivering, cold and wet in the morning light.
Red, red, red. All Cooper sees is red. Blood-red. Red stripes. Red lights. Red eyes. There was nothing you could do. Nothing you could do. Nothing you could do. He stacks the puzzle pieces by shades and hues and tones of red.
“Maybe we could get ice cream instead,” Cooper says with jitter in his voice.
“Ice cream?” The Father snorts. “You can get ice cream at home.”
“But we aren’t at home,” Cooper says.
“Jesus Christ,” The Father says. He stands up. Takes his suitcase into the bedroom beyond the kitchen.
Cooper stares at the outline of the puzzle. A hollow shell. He imagines glass walls around him like a glass moat. Soundproof walls. He can watch the world, but nothing can get in. Not even words. He imagines That Boy outside the walls. Unable to reach him. But Cooper knows That Boy watches his every move. That Boy makes sure Cooper does his job.
The spaghetti is boiled and served. The Father guesses he is hungry after all. Caddie and his mother and The Father eat without him.
Cooper picks through Pacific blue puzzle pieces, one at a time. And listens. He listens to them eating. Listens to them not talking. Knows no one is smiling. The dishes are washed and dried and put away.
“Ellen,” The Father says with more mad in his voice than a swatted mud wasp.
“Not now,” his mother says.
A door slams.
The cabin is silent.
Cooper turns the page of his notebook. Writes,
Silence does not feel like a safe place.
Cooper is hungry. And tired. He wishes Caddie would help him with the puzzle. Wishes they could do it together the way they used to. Like old times. South America is almost done.
“Cooper.”
Cooper, Cooper, Cooper. His name bounces like bubbles against the icy glass walls. He shivers. Finds a puzzle piece. Snaps it in place. There. Chile is perfect.
“Cooper!” A whispered shout.
The bubble pops. He waits. Listens. Looks up. The cabin is dark and still except for one lamp. Like an apparition, Caddie stands in the lamp’s yellow glow. “It’s late. You have to go to bed. If Dad finds out you’re still awake, he’ll blow up.”
Cooper wants to laugh at this play on words, but he cannot. He has read all about spontaneous combustion. It is not a silly idea. He cannot laugh. The Father blowing up. The Father in a million pieces. He will never laugh because he keeps his laughter a prisoner in a cage. In a deep, dark dungeon. “No, he won’t,” he tells Caddie so she won’t be afraid. “People can’t blow up. Not really.”
But maybe The Father can.
“You know what I mean, Cooper.” Caddie picks up an old newspaper by the fireplace, opens it wide, and lays it across the puzzle. “There,” she says. “The whole world is going to sleep now.”
“What time is it?” Cooper asks.
“Like, one o’clock in the morning.”
“Then it’s dawn in Latvia. The Balticians are waking up.”
“Oh, Cooper,” Caddie says. “There’s no such word as Baltician.”
Caddie says his name with a long “ooo” as if she is dying. He does not want her to die. He does not want The Father to blow up. He stands. He is stiff like Grandpa. His back burns under his shoulder. Fire burns in his muscles. He picks up Inferno and carries it to his room. Puts on his pajamas. Spots Amicus in his water dish—his head above the surface. Amicus is hungry. Cooper’s heart sinks. Even though that is just a saying, he is sure he is stepping on his own heart.
“Amicus,” he whispers, “I’m sorry. I almost forgot.” He gives him a food nugget and pats the frog’s head very gently.
With the stealth of a nocturnal animal, his flashlight in his hand, Cooper tiptoes outside, barefoot, across pine needles and acorns, to the outhouse, and then back to the kitchen. He pumps the pump slowly, quietly. He washes his hands and his face. Brushes his teeth. He hears whispers behind the walls and then silence behind the stream of pump water. When he holds the pump handle steady, he hears the word “sick.”
The Father is sick to death. Sick and tired. Suddenly, the words are not whispers. “He was b
etter,” his mother says, and Cooper can picture her dark and desperate eyes. “Today we played a game, just like we used to. He was fine until . . .”
She does not finish her sentence. No one talks. Cooper feels the cold of the unsaid words. He feels the cold of his mother’s thoughts. Senses the cold of The Father’s icy glare. Shivers. And listens. With all his might.
“Until I got here,” The Father says.
“I think you scare him.”
“Well, he scares me.”
“But you’re the grown-up.” His mother pauses. “Help him.”
“And do what? Just let him act like this? If you think that’s okay, then you’re as crazy as he is.”
“His new doctor says we’re not supposed to get mad. We’re supposed to let Cooper decide when—”
“His new doctor is an ignoramus. Just like the rest of them.”
“He’s a renowned expert and we’re lucky to have him. What do you expect anyway? An overnight miracle? He’s a little boy. What do you want from him?”
“I . . . I . . .”
What? What does The Father want? Cooper cannot hear him. He leans his ear to the door.
“I want my son back. Is that too much to ask?”
Silence.
Breaths.
A hand on the bedroom doorknob.
“I just want everything to go back to normal.”
Normal, normal, normal. Normal is in a cage with being good. With his laughter. With his real smiles. Cooper wants to let normal go free but he can’t. Or everyone will die.
“And what if that never happens?” his mother says. “Then what?”
Then what?
Cooper doesn’t know the answer. Doesn’t want to know the answer. Toothpaste bubbles in his mouth. Runs down his chin. He grabs a paper napkin. Rips it in half.
“You can’t blame him for everything,” his mother says.
Cooper wads up the pieces of napkin and pushes them into his ears. He knows he looks silly, like a billy goat.
A door creaks. Cooper hurries. The Father bumps into Cooper in the kitchen.
“Jesus Christ,” The Father says, shaking his head with eyes that might laugh and a mouth that could cry. Cooper knows The Father sees That Boy. Only That Boy. Even when That Boy is hiding, scared to death, deep inside him. Cowering next to his secrets.
The Notations of Cooper Cameron Page 4
