The Notations of Cooper Cameron
Page 5
Cooper steps back, lets The Father pass because he is dressed and carrying his suitcase and he is the one in a hurry.
The screen door squeaks open and snaps shut.
The dark car grumbles away through the dark woods.
Cooper must read. Read so The Father will not swerve off the highway and have a car accident and burst into flames. Read so his mother will not die of loneliness.
He crawls into bed with his flashlight.
A. A. A. Beast. Beast. Beast. Fled. Fled. Fled. Down. Down. Down . . . A beast fled down the valley with a hiss. A beast fled down the valley . . .
The cabin feels quiet. A scary kind of quiet.
Cooper yanks the wadded-up paper napkin from one ear. Still he hears nothing. Knows he hears sadness. He hears its heaving, sighing breaths. Empty human air. Nothingness blares in his ears. He hears Amicus not croaking. His mother’s hope sucked out and gone. His mother’s hope! What day is it? Cooper shines his flashlight at his calendar. At the circle and the X and the big red arrow.
He has almost forgotten.
In the kitchen, he raises the pump handle slowly, steadily. Up and down without a screech. He fills the antique cream pitcher with water and trickles it on the ivy. The dead ivy, but there is nothing you can do about that now. Not your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault.
But it is.
Cooper crawls back into bed with his flashlight, his dictionary, a pencil, and his notebook. He opens the dictionary to the word fault. “A crack in the Earth’s surface. A failure. A wrongdoing.” So he never forgets, he writes this down:
Do not crack. Do not stop. Do not fail. Ever.
Or someone you love will die. And it will be all your fault.
Coincidences
The big black ant runs along the straight line where the kitchen cabinet meets the wood floor. Like a race car in its track. The ant carries a crumb the size of its head. A speck of burned toast, as far as Cooper can tell. Cooper writes in his notebook:
The strength of small things should never be underestimated.
Cooper is careful not to step on the ant. He would never hurt a fly. But he could. By accident.
The ant escapes the shadow of the giant human and disappears into the slit between the wall and the floor. With hundreds of other ants. Thousands. Millions. Billions.
Seething with countless bugs.
An infinity of insects.
No. No. No.
Cooper puts his magnifying glass, notebook, and pencil on the kitchen counter. Try a happy thought. Just one happy thought. Like this: Today will be a good day. Today will be a good day. Today will be a good day.
Cooper takes a big breath. He has thought a very big thought.
A very heavy, big thought.
He takes another big breath and gets ready for another big thought.
Today he will be the master controller of his thoughts. He is a thinker. He will think other thoughts. And he will make a promise.
Today I will not scare anyone away.
Not even an ant.
Cooper lifts the pump handle. Water streams. He brushes his teeth, up and down. He wants to count, doesn’t want to count. Must not count. No counting. No counting. No counting. He closes his eyes and spits in the sink. One, two, three times. He can’t help counting. He pumps the white foam he cannot see down the drain, where it seeps into the earth around the helpless worms.
Don’t think about the worms. Don’t think about the worms. Don’t think about the worms. He opens his eyes. Thinks about the white foam. The frothy white foam hanging in the drain like sticky, melted marshmallows.
His mother comes home from doing the laundry and running errands. Cooper runs outside. “Hi, Mom.”
“Good morning, Cooper. You’re up earlier than I expected.” She drags a heavy basket of clean clothes from the back of the van. “I thought I’d hang everything on the line. Save a little money this time.” She sets the basket in the yard. “Can you help me bring in the groceries?”
Cooper carries a bag of groceries. And then another. And then another. One, two, three. Three is perfect. No counting. No counting. No counting. He thinks a happy thought. He thinks of melted marshmallows and chocolate bars and graham crackers. “Did you get the s’more stuff?”
“I did, but I forgot the ice cream. I’m sorry.”
Ice cream. Cooper has missed his favorite food the way he misses Grandpa. He feels his own sadness creeping inside him, growing outward from the center of his heart. He is hungry for his grandfather. Hungry for ice cream. Hungry, hungry, hungry. Except he doesn’t know how he can be hungry for anything when he has stuffed himself full of worry and secrets. “That’s okay,” he says. He does not want his mother to be sorry.
But it is not okay. Nothing is okay. The Father has gone home. His mother is sad. And it’s all Cooper’s fault. He is only pretending everything is okay. And so is his mother.
Sometimes you can’t tell the truth or it will hurt someone’s feelings.
His mother folds a grocery bag. “There’s a garage sale up the road,” she says. “The Bells’ place.” She stands on her tiptoes to put away the cereal. Cooper helps. He rearranges the spices to make room for the bag of marshmallows. “I thought you and Caddie might like to take a look.”
“Go where?” Caddie says. She yawns in the kitchen doorway in her polar bear pajamas.
“A garage sale,” Cooper says. “But we already have one.”
His mother turns around, looks at Cooper. Caddie stares too. Surprise is on their faces as if he has sneezed on them or thrown up on the floor. “That’s funny, Coop,” Caddie says.
Cooper imagines Caddie’s words one letter at a time because they come out of her mouth so slowly. Then the words seem to surprise Caddie, as if they have all bumped into each other, and she laughs. Knowing he has made her laugh is a happy thought. The happiest thought he has had in a long time. And he knows that everything Caddie says is becoming more and more believable every day, so he believes her.
“Can we buy something?” Cooper asks.
His mother grabs her purse and opens it as fast as she can, as if her life depends on it. She pulls out two five-dollar bills. “Here, one for each of you. Go. The white house with green shutters. Just around the bend.”
Caddie goes into her room and comes out wearing her bathing suit and a cover-up and sandals. Cooper follows her down the path, through the woods, and up to the sunny road. The road where the cars zoom by at fifty miles per hour. Cars that could hit you and you’d be dead. Splat. Nothing you can do about it. “Caddie, we have to walk against the traffic. Single file.”
“Okay, Coop.”
Caddie crosses the road. Cooper follows.
Walk, walk, walk. Listen, listen, listen. Cooper listens for cars. Don’t think about cars. Don’t think about cars. Don’t think about cars. What about bears? Bears come out at night. Bears come out at night. Bears come out at night. Unless they are hungry. Don’t think about bears. Don’t think about bears. Don’t think about bears.
Cooper wonders if he could buy a happy thought at the garage sale.
“What do you want to buy, Caddie?”
“I don’t know. I might not want to buy anything.”
“How will we carry it home?”
“Carry what home?
“Whatever we buy. What if it’s too big to carry home?”
“Cooper!”
“What?”
“Why would you worry about carrying home something we haven’t even bought yet?”
“It’s important to plan ahead.”
A truck engine shifts gears in the distance. A big blue truck rounds the curve, barreling up the road. Cooper runs to catch up to Caddie. He must protect her at all costs. He grabs her arm and pulls her into the tall weeds by the side of the road. The truck swerves as if they were standing in the middle of the road and races past them.
“Cooper, let go of my arm,” Caddie says as she yanks herself free.
“That t
ruck almost hit you.”
“That truck went down the middle of the road.”
“But it could have hit you. One wrong move—”
“Okay, Cooper! Geez. I’ll walk in the dirt.”
Cooper follows Caddie, one foot in front of the other, in a straight line, at the edge of the road where the tar crumbles into the sand that spreads into the long grass that grows over the roots of the tall trees that tower over the marsh that recedes into the lake . . . Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think. “How much farther?”
“Mom said the Bells’ place. It’s just around the bend.”
“The white house with green shutters,” Cooper says.
Gravel crunches beneath his feet. Crunches, crunches, crunches.
Just around the bend is a sign.
GArGe SALe HeRe.
“They spelled it wrong,” Cooper says.
“That doesn’t matter, Cooper. You still know what it means. Not everyone is a good speller.” Cooper pauses to make a note.
A garage sale is a misnomer.
A misnomer means its name is wrong.
Everything is wrong.
Tables are set in the driveway and across the grass. Ragged towels have been folded. The black chair has a broken leg. Dresser drawers are open and empty. Pillows are stacked on top of books. A toilet is under a tree. Nothing is where it belongs, and everything smells like cold dirt.
Cooper stops, but Caddie winds her way through the tables of things and things and things. A maze that leads into the shadows of the garage. What if she loses herself in the maze? Or gets lost in the briar? She could be lost to the world until a brave knight would find her. That could take a hundred years. Or maybe forever. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.
An old brown radio with knobs and knobs and more knobs balances on a pair of sawhorses. Cooper senses a hunger in his hands. He knows That Boy wants to touch the knobs. One by one. Don’t touch. Don’t touch. Don’t touch. Cooper curls his hands into fists. Puts them in his pockets.
An old man with a grumpy, wrinkled face rocks in a green chair. A metal chair that ticks like a clock with every push and sway. The old man is decrepit and rusty like his chair.
“Hey,” the old man says.
“Hi,” Caddie says.
“Hey,” Cooper says. The man is the oldest living thing he has ever seen in his whole life. Except that is not true. The ancient sequoia trees in California are older.
“Nice to see kids interested in old stuff,” the old man says with a voice that sounds like a machine slowly grinding things into tiny pieces. “Makes it easier to let it all go.” He coughs. “You know what they say?” the old man says.
Cooper shakes his head.
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” The old man coughs again.
Cooper imagines the old man’s cough is a volcano bursting with hot lava. Lava that rolls across the land killing everything in front of it. He steps back. Leans against a big black bell in the yard. The bell is not for sale. The old man coughs again. Coughs and coughs. Chokes and coughs. His eyes well with tears. He wipes his lips with a rag and puts the rag in his shirt pocket.
Now Cooper imagines the old man a giant salt shaker and millions of invisible microbes leaving his mouth and sprinkling the air and the dirt and the treasures and Cooper like salt. Cooper wishes the old man would cover his mouth when he coughs. He rubs the five-dollar bill in his pocket. Wants to buy everything to make the old man happy. Knows he does not want to buy anything at all. He sneaks his notebook from his pocket.
Sometimes the smallest things cause the biggest problems.
“This is really old,” Caddie says. She holds a small brown book. Turns the yellowed pages slowly. Carefully. “Wow. Listen to this. ‘Dear Caddie, Roses are red, violets are blue. You’re my best friend, truer than true. Alice M. June 15th, 1901.’ It’s an autograph book. And it belonged to someone named Caddie.”
Truer than true. Truer than true. Truer than true. Cooper steps in for a closer look.
“Caddie Fremont,” the old man says. “My mother’s big sister.”
“That’s my name too,” Caddie says.
“No, it isn’t. Your name is Caddie Mills Cameron,” Cooper tells her.
The old man laughs. A hoarse laugh. He reaches for the rag in his pocket. Rocks in his chair. “Caddie’s close enough, don’t you think?” He closes his mouth. Puts the rag to his lips and swallows his gurgling cough.
“How much is it?” Caddie asks.
“You just keep it,” the old man says. “It’s meant to be yours.”
Caddie reads another page in the little book without moving her lips.
Cooper nudges her. Whispers. “Say thank you.” He does not want to upset the old man. Does not want him to open his mouth again.
“Thank you,” Caddie says. “Thank you.”
“Much obliged,” the old man says. He waves a horsefly away from his nose. Squints in the sun. “You two any relation to Pat Mills?”
Caddie is reading the whole book. Every page. Cooper nudges her again. “He was our grandfather,” Caddie says.
“Thought so,” the old man says. “He was an old friend of mine. I’m Jerry Bell.”
“Nice to meet you,” Caddie says. Her eyes stay on the page.
Cooper looks up. Sees Mr. Jerry Bell wink his left eye.
“Now we need something for the lad here.” Mr. Jerry Bell pushes himself up from his chair. Walks as slowly as a sloth toward Cooper. As curled up as a question mark. “You like to fish?”
Cooper shakes his head. He hears a gurgle in Mr. Jerry Bell’s throat and steps back, watching his mouth closely for spewing lava.
“That can’t be. Every boy likes to fish.”
“That is not a true statement,” Cooper says. He thinks of Grandpa. Pictures his burning shirt. Sees the dead ivy on the windowsill. He wants to stomp his leg. He crinkles the five-dollar bill in his pocket. Pinches his leg to hold it still. No. No. No.
That Boy was not invited to the garage sale.
“Then I guess times have changed. In my day, every boy liked to fish.” Mr. Jerry Bell curls his knuckles, steadies himself against the table. Reaches for a bucket with a big metal crank on top. “You like ice cream?”
“Yes,” Cooper says as the sun shines through the trees, speckling light on the table and all the things for sale. “Ice cream is my favorite food.”
“Mine too,” Mr. Jerry Bell says with another wink. He picks up the bucket with shaking arms. Turns the crank. Blue-green veins bulge in his bony hands. “This thing here is an ice cream maker.”
Cooper leans forward. Examines the bucket in Mr. Bell’s arms. “How do you turn it on?”
“It works the old-fashioned way. By hand. Takes patience.”
“Cooper has lots of patience,” Caddie says.
Truer than true. Truer than true. Truer than true.
Mr. Jerry Bell extends his shaking arms. Gives the bucket to Cooper. “There you go, my boy. Now all you need is rock salt, ice, cream, sugar, and a flavor. You pick some of them wild blackberries across the way and you’ll have the best ice cream you ever ate in your whole life.”
Cooper is worried about Mr. Jerry Bell. His arms take a long time to bend. Words take a long time to leave his mouth. Every breath scratches his throat, in and out.
“Kind of heavy, though,” Mr. Bell says before he coughs.
Cooper wraps his arms around the bucket. It is heavy. As heavy as Cooper’s worry about Mr. Bell. “I’m strong,” Cooper says. “Thank you, sir.”
“You can call me Mr. Bell. No one’s called me sir since the army.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bell. I believe this ice cream maker was meant for me.”
Mr. Bell laughs. Laughs until he coughs. Coughs until he spits on the ground.
Cooper wonders what’s so funny.
“Yes, I do believe it was meant for you.” Mr. Bell looks at Caddie. Finds her eyes. “You carry the crank,” he says.
Cooper nudges Caddie again. “Thank you, Mr. Bell,” she says.
Cooper hugs the ice cream maker. Turns to follow Caddie.
Wait a minute.
Mr. Bell called him “my boy.” My boy, just like Grandpa used to say.
Cooper turns back.
Mr. Bell slowly raises his hand. It quivers in the air. The ice cream maker is too heavy to hold with one hand. Cooper cannot wave back. He nods his head.
Mr. Bell’s grumpy mouth slowly turns into a smile.
Cooper can tell with one look. It’s there. In his eyes.
Mr. Bell is holding on for dear life.
Heavy Things
Twenty-one, plop, twenty-two, plop, twenty-three, plop . . . The branches of the blackberry bushes are stiff and prickly. They scratch at Cooper’s arms and legs. The scratches burn like fire.
“Ow,” Caddie says. “Ow,” she says a second later, before she sucks on her fingertip. Before she stomps out of the thicket. “This is impossible.”
So far Cooper has picked twenty-seven berries. Twenty-seven perfect berries. Don’t count. Don’t count. Don’t count. Just pick, pick, pick. The ones that fall to the ground he leaves for the birds.
“Why can’t we just go to the store and buy ice cream? These thorns are killing me.”
Killing, killing, killing. Cooper stops. Eyes Caddie head to toe. She needs him. “You hold the bucket,” Cooper says. “I’ll fill it.”
Picking, picking, picking. Patience, patience, patience. Cooper fills the bucket with perfect blackberries and they take turns carrying it all the way home.
“How was it?” their mother asks, hanging one of Cooper’s T-shirts on a clothesline strung between two small pine trees.
“Disgusting,” Caddie says. “Everything was old. And disgusting.”
“Did you meet Mr. Bell?” their mother asks, following them into the cabin.
“Him too,” Caddie says.
Cooper hoists the bucket to the kitchen counter.
“Oh, Caddie,” their mother says. “He was a friend of my dad’s, you know.”