They stand in a line. A line of strangers: Caddie, his mother, Mr. Bell, Mary Ann, and Cooper. And watch. Now Cooper knows what it felt like when Earthlings landed on Tezorene. The Tezornauts were looking forward, shaking with fear and excitement. And hope.
“What have you got there?” Mr. Bell tries to shout, but Mike cannot hear his crackle voice. The motor hums. The water slaps the hull of the fancy boat. The orange tanks echo.
“I reckon it’s a raft,” Cooper says.
“I was beginning to wonder where we would sit,” his mother says. She puts her hand on Caddie’s shoulder. Caddie tightens her lips. Frowns at Cooper.
“Ahoy!” Mike shouts, jumping to the dock. Mike ropes the raft to a stanchion. Pushes the anchor over the edge and into the water. Ron cuts the motor.
“Ahoy!” Cooper shouts back.
“Is that you, Jerry?” Ron calls as he walks up the dock.
“Hell’s bells, Ron. Who else do you know who’s as old as the glaciers that made these ice-cold lakes?”
“How are you? I hear you’ve been sick.”
“Still upright,” Mr. Bell says.
Mary Ann covers her mouth. Ron laughs. Takes Mr. Bell’s hand in both of his. Nods at Cooper’s mother. “I hear you’re having a party.”
“It’s all Cooper’s idea,” she says.
“You are welcome to join us,” Cooper says. “But why are you towing the raft?”
“I was going to take it to the dump when Mike insisted we bring it here. That is, if you want it.”
“We want it,” Caddie says. “There’s nothing to do up here.”
“I put a mast on it for you, Cooper. We could take it out right now, if you want,” Mike says.
Cooper freezes. Shivers in the hot sun. He does not want to take the raft out right now. Does not want to take the raft out ever. He backs up. Right into Mr. Bell’s bony knees.
“We could have the party on the raft,” his mother says.
Cooper holds his breath. Feels the Earth turn without him. He does not want to have the party on the raft.
“It’s certainly big enough for all of us,” Ron says.
“I don’t think it’s safe with the wheelchair and all,” Mary Ann says.
Cooper exhales. Feels his shivers ebb like an ocean tide.
“I don’t need my wheelchair,” says Mr. Bell. “Unless you want to roll me off. Not a bad way to go, if you ask me.” Mr. Bell laughs at his own joke.
“Jerry,” Ron says, “you haven’t changed a bit.”
Mike walks down the dock. Looks into the motorboat. “I think we have enough life jackets.”
Cooper stares at Mr. Bell. Can’t believe he would make a joke about dying. Can believe he would do it all over again if he had the chance. Mr. Bell stares back at Cooper. Like a laser light show, Mr. Bell’s stare pierces his eyes, his heart, his brain. Cooper knows. Cooper knows Mr. Bell knows that he is afraid.
“I’m game if you are, my boy,” Mr. Bell says.
My boy.
Mr. Bell tugs on Cooper’s hand. Pulls him close, so close Cooper can smell Swiss cheese, the smell of old age. Mr. Bell whispers in his clogged-drain voice, “If I can do it, you can do it.”
Logic, preparation, and caution. Logic, preparation, and caution. Logic, preparation, and caution.
Mike tosses Cooper a life jacket. Cooper catches it. Drops it to the ground like a hot potato. A sand spider scurries under a twig.
Mary Ann puts on her life jacket. Helps Mr. Bell with his. Ron, Mike, Caddie, and his mother put on their life jackets.
Cooper does not.
He stands there with the life jacket at his feet. A life jacket is a misnomer. It does not give life. It gives hope. People he loves are going to get on the raft. The raft could sink. The raft could capsize. Hope is not good enough on a raft. He looks to the horizon. Storms can come out of nowhere. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think. Cooper shakes from the inside out.
“Hurry up, Coop,” Caddie says. She picks up his life jacket. Holds it open. Like a robot, Cooper slips his arms through the holes. Caddie whispers, “It’ll be okay.”
If Cooper can go on the raft, then Mr. Bell can go on the raft. If, then. It is an equation. No, it is a theorem. Which means the reverse is true. There is logic in theorems. But he believes Caddie more than he believes this mathematical statement. “Are you sure?”
Caddie nods.
“Just a minute,” Cooper says. “I need to prepare.”
“Caddie,” his mother says, “help me get the ice cream.”
Cooper clips the life jacket’s strap at his waist. “I’ll be right back,” he says.
“Don’t forget the Jolly Roger,” Mike yells.
Cooper runs ahead of Caddie and his mother. The screen door squeaks open and snaps shut. He runs to his room. Opens the fluffy plastic package from Ron’s Bait Shop. Puts the giant fishing vest over his life jacket. The pockets hang at his knees, big and empty. They will hold his prized possessions: his rocks—the big one with the fossil; the one the size of his fist; the two smaller ones, like cardinal eggs; and the flat one, like a nickel—his magnifying glass, his notebooks and pencils, and Mike’s book, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
He fills his pockets one prized possession at a time. The rocks go in the big pockets at his knees. The notebooks go in the secret pocket near his heart. Mike’s book goes in his breast pocket.
“Cooper, are you coming?” Caddie shouts.
“I am preparing,” he yells.
The screen door squeaks open, snaps shut.
Cooper drops to his knees in his room. The rocks clunk against the wood floor. He reaches under his bed for the Jolly Roger flag. The flag of death. Don’t think about death. Don’t think about death. Don’t think about death.
A pirate flag. The Jolly Roger. A gift from his friend, Mike.
Jolly, jolly, jolly. Jolly, jolly, jolly.
Amicus croaks. Cooper can’t believe he almost forgot him. “Of course, you’re coming too,” he says. “It’s a goodbye party for everyone.” He scoops Amicus into the microwave-safe dish. Puts the strainer on top. Carries the Jolly Roger flag between his teeth.
His hands are full. He cannot run or he will spill Amicus. The heavy pockets knock at his knees with every careful step. Mike looks at him the way he did when he wore his Tezornaut helmet, but Mike holds his lips tight. Does not say, “Why are you wearing that?” Cooper tips his head and lets Mike take the pirate flag from his teeth.
“Argh,” Mike says and hops up on the dock.
“But we’re good pirates, Mike. We’re the ice-cream-eating pirates.”
“Aye-aye,” Mike says as he steps onto the raft.
Mr. Bell gives Cooper a good long look. Cooper knows he looks ridiculous in a giant fishing vest. His hands are full or he would write this down:
Sometimes looking ridiculous is equal to logic, preparation, and caution.
“Hell’s bells,” Mr. Bell says. “What have you got there?”
Amicus looks ridiculous, too, in a bowl with a strainer on top.
“This is Amicus the Great. Amicus means ‘friend’ in Latin. He’s brave, and he likes parties.”
Mr. Bell holds out his hands for a closer look. Cooper gives him the bowl. And the strainer. The water in the microwave-safe dish ripples with little waves in Mr. Bell’s shaking hands. “Well, Amicus,” Mr. Bell says, “any friend of Cooper’s is a friend of mine.”
Caddie steps onto the raft. Sets the bowls and spoons and napkins next to the mast. His mother gets on the raft and sets down two big metal bowls of ice cream. They are covered with dish towels to keep out the bugs.
Standing next to Mr. Bell, waiting on the beach, Cooper shivers.
“Are you cold?” his mother calls to him.
Cooper shakes his head. He is not cold. He is hot. Boiling hot. And he has realized something very important. He is shivering with electrical impulses. He is dangerously riddled with electricity. Electricity so powerful he could ignit
e dead branches. He cannot step in the water. Cannot get wet. Cannot close the circuit or Mr. Bell’s oxygen tank will explode. The raft will fly sky high. And everyone on it will sizzle and die. Cooper shivers so hard he cannot walk. Cannot lift one leg toward the dock. Toward the raft.
Caddie jumps off the raft. Wades to the shore. “Hurry up, Cooper.” She takes Amicus from Mr. Bell. Places the frog’s dish on the raft next to the bowls and spoons.
“Cover him up,” Cooper says.
Caddie sets the strainer on top of the frog’s dish.
Cooper scans the rippling silver lake. The lake is so big he cannot see across it. So small it is a dot in the universe. The raft is a microdot. Cooper is invisible. No one can see his fear. He imagines himself an illusion. An invisible illusion. An erroneous perception of nothingness.
Sometimes nothing is everything.
“Just a minute,” he says. His hands are free. He can write that down.
“C’mon, Coop,” Mike calls from the raft. “You’re my first mate.”
Cooper cannot disappoint Mike. He puts his notebook away. Steadies himself. He lifts one leg. Then the other. He walks like a shaky old man. Like Mr. Bell. And then he hears Mr. Bell’s voice.
Logic. Another step toward the dock.
Preparation. One step closer to the raft.
Caution. One misstep away from total disaster.
Cooper stops.
Mary Ann hooks Betsy on the back of Mr. Bell’s wheelchair. Takes off Mr. Bell’s shoes and socks. Rolls his pants up to his ankles. His old feet are bumpy and blue and as dry as toast.
Mike grabs the oxygen tank. Mary Ann and Ron carry Mr. Bell. They set him down on the edge of the raft like a valuable statue. His blue feet disappear beneath the water.
The Jolly Roger flaps in the gentle wind.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Cooper lifts one heavy leg. Then the other. I must do this. I must do this. I must do this. And if I do? What if it sinks? What if it sinks? What if it sinks? “How much weight does this rig hold?”
“A lot,” Mike says.
“Can it sink?”
“Only with dynamite,” Mike says. “Are you carrying explosives?”
Logic. This question is a question of logic. “No,” Cooper says. The question is also a joke. But Cooper cannot laugh. Cannot throw caution to the wind. He is the explosive. “That’s funny, Mike,” he says. But it isn’t funny at all.
Cooper has arrived at the edge of the raft.
“Give me your hand,” Mike says.
Cooper extends his hand. Closes his eyes. But only for a second.
With one strong yank, Cooper is on board the otherworldly seagoing vessel. The raft bobs. The mast tips. Cooper gets down on his knees and crawls behind Mr. Bell. He keeps one arm around the mast, hanging on for dear life. Caddie jumps on board. Mary Ann gets on. His mother gets on. The raft heaves and rocks. Ron lifts the anchor, lands it on the deck with a thud. He coils the rope. Water drips and pools.
Mike unhooks the ropes. Shoves off from the dock with one foot. One bare pirate foot.
“Just a minute,” Cooper says. Everyone looks at him. “I forgot to give you your book, Mike.” He pulls The Adventures of Tom Sawyer from his breast pocket. “I finished it.”
Mike takes the book. “Did you like it?”
Cooper nods. “I reckon it changed my life.”
“Thanks,” Mike says. Mike winds up, throws the book across the raft, across the water and across the sand. The pages barely flutter. The book lands in Mr. Bell’s wheelchair. Right next to Betsy.
“You forgot Betsy, Mr. Bell,” Cooper says.
Mr. Bell crackles with a laugh. “You know what that means.” He taps his temple with a long, bony finger.
“This will be one of your best pictures ever,” Cooper says. “Your magnum opus.”
Mr. Bell laughs. And coughs.
Cooper closes his eyes. He is on top of a raft on top of water. Full of electricity. His whole body shakes like an outboard motor. He wants to touch. Wants to wash. Wants to count. Cannot count anything but seconds. One, two, three . . .
Voices hum around him like insects.
The oxygen tank hisses.
“Ellen,” Mr. Bell says and then he coughs. “It was a day just like this one when your dad caught the biggest walleye on record in this county.” Mr. Bell coughs again.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . .
“I remember,” Cooper’s mother says. “We got our picture in the paper. I was just a little girl, but he always took me fishing with him. He liked to say I had more patience than a lure.”
Ron laughs.
“I took that picture,” Mr. Bell says.
“Wow,” Caddie says.
“My dad used to talk about that fish all the time,” Ron says. “Back when he opened the bait shop. I think that was the beginning of the annual fishing contest.”
“I didn’t even know you liked to fish, Mom,” Caddie says.
“I love to fish,” she says.
“I know all the best places,” Mike says.
“Maybe next year,” she says.
Cooper shoves his hands in his pockets. Grips the rocks with all his might. Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six . . .
“Who’s ready for ice cream?” Caddie asks. “We better eat it before it melts.”
Ice cream. Cooper stops counting. Opens his eyes. The raft is not sinking.
“I’m always ready for ice cream,” Mr. Bell says.
“Chocolate or strawberry?” Cooper’s mother says.
“Both,” says Mr. Bell.
Mike pushes them toward the lily pads with one long oar. “How deep is it here?” Cooper asks.
“Your waist or so. Look. You can still see the bottom.”
Cooper inches to the edge. Peers at the brown and rippled sand beneath thin, green water. He spots a school of minnows. They do not swim in a circle like the minnows in Ron’s Bait Shop, trapped and frantic. “Look at the happy cynprinnadae,” he says.
“Cynprinnadae?” Mr. Bell says. “You sound just like your grandfather.”
Mike puts the oar in the water again. Pushes them deeper.
“Here’s your ice cream, Cooper,” his mother says.
“Ice cream,” Cooper says. He sits up fast.
“Cooper, watch out!” Caddie yells.
But it’s too late.
Cooper’s foot kicks the microwave-safe dish. Sends it into the air. Like a bubble. Sailing. The strainer left behind. “Nooo!” Cooper hears himself shout. The word arcs through the sky, a contrail of long O’s.
Brave Amicus pokes his head into the air.
Cooper must save him.
He leaps from the raft. Flings himself into the wind. Into the water. Feels himself defying death to save Amicus. Feels the smooth plastic bowl slip through his fingers. Almost. Almost. Almost.
The dish falls away.
Amicus plunges.
Cooper holds his breath. Ducks below the surface. The water stings his open eyes. He sinks to the bottom. Cannot move forward. The rocks. The rocks are too heavy. They hold him back. He pulls the biggest rock from his pocket. The grandfather rock. Pulls out the others too. Drops them to the bottom of the lake. Feels himself freed. He rises. Reaches for Amicus. Reaches and reaches.
But Amicus swims with all his might. His long legs pump together. Perfectly. Automatically. Easily. Without a care in the world.
Cooper lunges. Feels the sand give beneath him like soft ice cream. He reaches. Reaches again.
Reaches one last time.
Amicus lifts his head toward the pink sunlight. Glows in the sunbeam for a second. Like a firefly. Disappears into the lily pads.
Amicus the Great.
Home where he belongs.
Cooper surfaces like a breaching whale. He spits water with a gasping breath. Rubs his eyes. The water laps at his chest.
“Did you catch him?” Caddie asks, leaning over the edge of the raft, her eyes as bright as the lil
ies.
Cooper shakes his head. “You should have seen him swim. He wasn’t scared at all. I didn’t know he could do that.” Cooper catches his breath. “It was like he knew where he belonged the whole time.”
The oxygen tank hisses.
Hisses with breath.
Hisses with life.
Cooper’s hands and face drip with water. And then he remembers.
He looks at Caddie and Mike and his mother and Ron and Mary Ann and Mr. Bell. He can’t believe his eyes. The raft did not blow up. His charged ions did not electrocute them. Did not incinerate the raft. Everyone is alive and well. They smile. They do not know they were in danger. Cooper shivers with disbelief.
“Your ice cream’s melting,” Mr. Bell says. “You better hurry before I eat it.”
Caddie holds out her hand. Cooper grabs it. Climbs aboard the raft. Water drains from his giant vest, pools at his feet. He stops shivering. Feels the warmth of the sun. The warmth of a hundred years. The warmth of hearts still beating.
Sometimes you don’t know you have done something brave until it is behind you.
He can write this down, right now. He unzips his vest. Reaches inside the secret pocket. Finds the notebooks, but they are soft and wet. All of them. He wants to stomp. Wants to touch and count and run, but he is trapped on the raft. He shoves his desperate hands into his deepest pockets. They are empty. The rocks are gone. Of course, they are gone.
Except, wait a minute. One rock is left behind. Stuck in the corner. One tiny, flat rock the size of a nickel. A souvenir of Amicus the Great.
Cooper turns the small, flat rock over and over and examines it like a specimen. There is only one place in the whole world the Amicus rock belongs. He looks to the shore, to Mr. Bell’s wheelchair. To Betsy. Looks back at the rock. Knows he cannot write this down:
Sometimes you have to let go.
And then you can use both hands to hang on for dear life.
For a moment, Cooper watches Caddie and his mother. Mike and Ron. Mary Ann and Mr. Bell. Everyone is eating ice cream.
With the flat rock in his fingers, like a tiny discus, Cooper eyes the water. He holds his arm out straight, winds up, and sends the rock across the smooth and silvery lake toward the lily pads.
The rock sails just above the lake’s surface. Touches down. Makes a tiny splash.
The Notations of Cooper Cameron Page 18
