by Sarah Ellis
Lynn stood up and gathered dishes. Some conversations you just didn’t want to overhear.
She rinsed the plates, ate one more sliver of sunburnt lemon and looked around the kitchen, almost as familiar as her own. She looked at the collage of the corkboard. Meetings, fundraisers, petitions, political flyers, photos of foster kids who had passed through. Clutter, projects, memories, things happening and about to happen.
It was like the cottage.
The voices drifting in from the other room got louder.
“Shaving your legs is not the same as shaving off my beard. I refuse.”
There was a chorus of friendly argument followed by Rob bellowing, “Why, why, why, Delilah!” Next thing was the tinny sound of music.
“Lynn! Come back. Stop working. You’re missing Tom Jones.”
The three were crowded around the laptop where some grotesque guy was singing a song about stabbing his girlfriend, backed up with an oompah-pah band.
“They’re coming to get him because he murdered her, right?” said Lynn.
“No,” said Rob. “They’re coming to arrest him because of his sideburns.”
Shakti grabbed a rolled-up magazine and started to lip-sync.
“You’re good at that,” said Jean. “You completely get the look. Regret and guilt combined with the pain of acid reflux.”
“I missed my calling,” said Shakti.
Lynn wondered for a moment if it might be true. Shakti at her best, charming Amanda and Jasmin, wearing the corporate look as though she did it every day, being Tom Jones — that Shakti just disappeared in muddle and mess. Was there a calling she had somehow missed?
Lynn pulled herself together. What was she doing, trying to explain her mother? It was a waste of time, a waste of brain cells.
Jean put on her new shoes and teetered around the room.
“I’m going to have to go into training. I’ve got two weeks to master this skill.”
“Who else is going to be there?” said Lynn.
“Oh, the usual suspects,” said Rob. “We’re hoping for some of those younger Battle in Seattle folks. You should bring some friends along.”
“Maybe.” It would be better to have some friends along. Celia was out of the question. Her parents thought civil disobedience was a criminal activity. Kas would probably be up for it, but Saturday mornings were soccer, and soccer was sacred.
But what about … ? This was certainly a fun mutual activity, and Blossom was already in a kind of corporate disguise.
Would that be possible?
EIGHT
Finding Day
“Stay on the line for a big announcement.” Kas made trumpet fanfare noises.
“Okay,” said Lynn. “I’m ready and waiting.”
“Hold it, why do you sound so muffled?”
“I’m volumizing. Remember you told me that I can plump up my hair by hanging it upside down for twenty minutes a day?”
“Yes, well, forget plump hair at this moment. Heeeeeeere’s Celia!”
“We won!”
“What? You won the whole thing?”
“Yup. Best choir at the festival. Take that, McMinville!”
“O.M.G. That is awesome!”
“And … Celia! Give me the phone. Celia blew them away with her solo.”
“Lynn? I really did. Something happened. Like, something happened to my body. This voice came out from nowhere, like the choir behind me was a wave and I was a surfer.”
“Singing surfer dude! Well, dudette, I guess. Celia, that’s amazing. Bet Inky’s happy, eh?”
“He cried! Spilling-over-tears cried.”
“Lynn, I’m so sorry that you weren’t here. That was the only bad thing. What’s up back there?”
“Well, you know. The usual. I caught a glimpse of Brandon.”
Kas jumped back in. “Get out. What’s he look like?”
“Dark hair. Kind of short. Drop crotch pants.”
“Drop crotch! That’s just sad.”
“I’m getting free blocks where choir used to be. Sabrina Durmaz and I are doing a French skit together. I can tell you all the other stuff when you get home. Tomorrow, right?”
“No. That’s the other big news. The winning choir gets to stay a whole week longer and do some concerts.”
“Bummer. No, I mean, that’s great but I miss you.”
“Miss you, too.”
“Miss you squared.”
Lynn tucked her phone away. The usual. Hardly. She was about to leave for what might be the most unusual birthday party of her life. She didn’t know what to expect, but she didn’t think that a sushi party platter and a rented karaoke machine would be involved.
≈≈≈
A t’ai chi group with swords was going through their paces as Lynn reached the fountain, the designated meeting place. As the water rose and fell behind her, she sat on the concrete edge and watched the ballet.
She was looking forward to meeting mysterious Fossick and bad Tron but mostly she wanted to see Larch again. During that first visit when Blossom put her hands on his head to calm him, when she encouraged him to say “I” by holding up her finger — it had all been … sweet.
Lynn often wondered what it would be like to have a brother, but she had never imagined a Larch. The hand-flapping, talking by the book, not meeting her eyes — he was obviously on the spectrum, but there was something else, something outside the special-needs box.
Blossom appeared, lugging a bulging shopping bag.
Lynn jumped up and grabbed one handle. “Happy birthday!”
“Hurry. Hot doughnuts, cold milk, frozen ice cream.”
As they walked through the Lingerlands toward the reservoir, Blossom started to whistle, loud, liquid and fancy.
“Is that a signal?”
“No,” said Blossom. “I’m just happy.”
The first thing Lynn noticed in the cottage were the flowers. Flowers and leaves, vines and branches. Not in containers but stuck everywhere, between the doors, taped to the chairs, wound around the pipes, tucked behind the pictures and into the cords of the twinkle lights, braided into Larch’s hair and the collars of Artdog and Catmodicum.
“Larch did the flowers,” said Blossom.
“Hey, Larch, they’re beautiful. Where did you get them?”
“The flowers come from our garden. One day the visitor can go there.”
Looking into a darker corner Lynn noticed, emerging from the flowery ceiling, a creature suspended by his knees from a high pipe.
Tron? Volumizing? He slowly jackknifed to a right angle, then grabbed the pipe and backflipped to the floor, landing lightly without a sound.
Lynn blinked. He was manga come to life — narrow face, shiny black hair that fell into precise points as he flipped to the vertical, strong skinny body, bronze skin.
“Hey,” he said, narrowing his perfect anime eyes. “Lynn.”
“Hey,” croaked Lynn.
It was a relief when one of the many doors opened and a comfortably ordinary man entered, plaid shirt, beard with an edge of gray, thick eyebrows, generally grandfatherish.
He flung his arms out wide, sending several suspended bouquets of flowers flying.
“It’s Lynn, the visitor! I’m Fossick. Welcome to the cottage! Welcome to Arcadia. One feast, one house, one mutual happiness.”
“A-r-C-a-D-i-A,” spell-chanted Larch, snapping his fingers.
To Lynn’s astonishment, Fossick reached out and wrapped both her and Blossom in a giant hug. He smelled like leaves, crispy leaves in a pile.
“Did I hear a rumor of festive doughnuts and an ice-cream cake?”
“Dessert, then the story,” said Larch.
The family tackled the doughnuts and cake with gusto.
“Larch knows words for doughnu
ts in foreign lands,” said Larch. Blossom and Fossick each held up a finger.
“I know words for doughnuts in foreign lands: Kinkling, malasadas, bomboloni, zeppole, churros.”
The dessert enthusiasm, however, was mild compared to their pleasure in the milk that Blossom pulled out of the grocery bag. Fossick poured mug after foaming mug and they all downed it with gusto, reminding Lynn of football fan beer drinkers. Catmodicum lapped milk out of a saucer and Artdog helped himself to a longjohn, taking it to the floor at Larch’s feet to nibble on.
Lynn thought of Kas’s dog, Max, and how his every bite was weighed and monitored for maximum canine health.
“Is it time?” said Larch. “Is it time for the story?” He pulled down his suit jacket sleeves and straightened his powder blue tie.
“Okay,” said Fossick, shaking doughnut crumbs out of his beard. “Here we go. The day I found Blossom …”
Larch hugged himself and squeaked. Tron gave a sigh that was borderline sarcastic. Lynn recognized that border. Lately at home she had been walking along it herself.
Fossick glanced at Tron. “… was on an ordinary day.”
“No sign, no signal,” said Larch.
There was a pause. Fossick raised one awning eyebrow at Tron.
“No prophesy, no portent,” said Tron. His voice came out as even as toothpaste.
Fossick continued. “It wasn’t even a bin day. It was a returning day. I had done with returning and I was pushing the wheelie home. I had coins in my pocket.”
“Clinking,” said Larch.
“Clinking in my pocket. But then, passing by a dumpster, I heard another sound. I thought it was a kitten.”
There was another pause.
“I thought it was a kitten,” Fossick repeated.
Tron was picking at the edge of his shoe, pulling the sole away.
“Don’t wreck your shoes,” said Fossick.
“Don’t wreck your shoes doesn’t come next,” said Larch, beginning to flap again. “Tron says, ‘Not a kitten.’”
“You know it. Say it yourself.” Tron gave his shoe another vicious tug.
“Tron,” said Fossick, putting his hand on Tron’s arm. “Darken not the mirth of the feast.” Tron swatted him away.
Blossom took Larch’s hand. “Never mind. I’ll say Tron’s part.”
Fossick gave Tron a steady look and then continued. “So I nearly passed by. I had enough cats to manage the mice.”
“You had enough cats to love,” said Larch.
“But something made me stop and open the lid. Inside, wrapped in a towel …”
“A soft yellow towel,” said Blossom.
“… was a baby, a newborn baby.”
A baby? Lynn looked around at the group. Did they mean that Blossom was thrown away in the garbage? That was horrible. How could they be telling the story in such a jolly way?
Then Fossick put out both arms as if to hug the air. “And the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found.” He winked at Lynn and whispered, “Some parts of this story were written by Shakespeare.”
Larch took a deep breath. “She grabbed your finger.”
“She held on for dear life, as tight as a leech,” said Fossick. “As tight as a leech but a good deal prettier.”
Blossom took a deep breath. “Was I stinky?”
“Your head smelled like a flower,” said Fossick. “So I called you Blossom.”
“She wasn’t a steal, she was a find,” said Larch. “We do not steal. It’s a rule.”
“The best find of all time,” said Fossick. “I said to myself, Is it useful?”
Blossom and Larch exploded into a yelling chorus. “No! No way! No use at all! Nyet. No, no, no!” Artdog began to howl.
Larch grabbed him and squish-hugged him. “So you said to yourself …”
“So I said to myself, Is it lovely?”
“Yes, si, hai, darn tootin’, oui,” Larch agreed.
Even Tron was pulled in. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
The sound filled up the room, curling around the chairs, settling on Larch’s work table, creeping around the hanging flowers, bouncing off the hanging rugs, rising to the pipes overhead. Catmodicum woke, stretched, yawned, wandered over to Lynn and snuggled into her lap before going back to sleep.
With Shakti as a mom, Lynn had been to some strange events in her life, especially before Clive. There was drum circle, welcoming the dawn at the summer solstice, mumming, a yoga wedding.
But this was something else. What it reminded her of most was church, where she sometimes went with Rob and Jean. Everybody saying the same words they always said, telling the same story over and over. Like wacky church.
The chorus of yesses wound down and Larch continued. “Useful or lovely. Finds must be one. That’s a rule.”
“She was indeed lovely,” said Fossick. “So I brought her home.”
“But I cried,” said Blossom. “I needed milk. Good milk is a hard find.”
“So I went to the petting zoo in the Lingerlands and cut them a deal. I built them some fences. They gave me goats’ milk.”
“From the pygmy goats,” said Blossom.
Larch jiggled up and down, tipping Artdog off his lap. “This is Larch’s best part. Did she poop and pee and puke?”
“She did. But I fixed her up, every time. Blossom loved the milk and she grew and grew, increasing in stature and beauty. And she does still.”
There was a pause, quiet except for Catmodicum’s purr and Tron drumming his fingers on a pipe.
“Last question,” said Blossom. Her voice was different. Deeper. “Was I a throwaway?”
Fossick put a hand on Tron’s sleeve. “Tron?”
“No, you were a keepsake. The best find of all time.” Tron ricocheted out of his chair. “Okay, that’s it. I’m out of here.”
“Hey! What about the feast?” Blossom banged her fist on the floor. Artdog jumped.
“Not hungry.” Tron scooped his pack off the floor and was gone.
“Wait!” Fossick started to go after him, but the door slid shut before he had pushed himself out of his chair.
“Larch says Tron is bad,” said Larch, an edge of panic in his voice.
“No,” said Fossick. “Tron isn’t bad. He’s just silly, because look at all this glorious boughten food. All the more for us. And the visitor.”
The birthday feast didn’t make any sense as a meal, but it was delicious. Fresh bread, butter that Blossom sliced like cheese, chicken on skewers, bananas and more milk, consumed in no particular order.
Larch went to one of the doors and swung it open. Inside were hundreds of cassette tapes, each with some combination of colored dots along the edge.
“Purple and green is for finding days.” He chose one tape and put it into a big clunky machine. A fiddle and banjo joined the party.
“We got those all in one find,” said Blossom. “Enough music for a whole life.” She held a banana up to the light.
“Look. Not one bit of brown.”
“Probably under-ripe,” said Fossick.
“I like under-ripe.”
Lynn’s present, the only one in sight, was a big hit. It was passed around in its wrapped state for everyone to admire the paper and bow and the wrapping job.
“The visitor folds the edges under,” said Larch. “That’s good.”
The bead bracelet was given the same intense enthusiastic scrutiny. Blossom modeled it on both wrists and both ankles. Fossick gave Shakespeare the final word. “What gold and jewels she is furnished with.”
They ate every scrap of food. Larch fell asleep. Artdog went to stand with his head against the door.
“I’ll take him,” said Blossom. “Then I’ll walk Lynn to the bus.”
≈≈≈
<
br /> They strolled through the Lingerlands, Artdog sniffing for news, Blossom softly whistling the bluegrass tunes they had been listening to.
Every time they passed a garbage can, Lynn shivered, imagining that it cradled a baby. She wanted to ask about Blossom’s mother. She wanted to ask about Tron and didn’t Blossom realize that he was gorgeous. She wanted to ask why Larch went to sleep all the time and Fossick quoted Shakespeare.
She didn’t want to break the friendly silence.
“He would have ruined my birthday. But you were there. You made it perfect. I love my bracelet. Did you like the boughten food?”
“I did, but don’t you usually buy food?”
“Only on birthdays and other treat days because fresh milk is still a hard find, and unsquishy bananas and, of course, ice cream.”
“But where do you get food if you don’t buy it?”
“We just go where they’re throwing it away. It’s one of our jobs. Sometimes they throw it away from restaurants. Sometimes they throw it away from grocery stores. Sometimes people have a tree full of plums and they want someone to pick them and take them away. Sometimes people give away food on the Freecycle, mostly coffee. There is food everywhere. You just have to know and go.”
“But doesn’t all that take a lot of time?”
“We have a lot of time.”
“Oh.” Nobody ever said they had a lot of time. People always said they were too busy.
“Where does the money come from for the boughten food and other stuff?” Lynn suddenly heard herself. What was she doing? You didn’t go around asking people where they got their money. “I mean, if that’s not too nosy. You can just tell me to shut up, you know.”
“Why would I do that? We get some money from collecting and returning.”
“You mean, like, on recycling day?”
“Yes. But mostly Larch makes the money we need for the things we can’t find.”
“Larch? How?”
“Did you see the toilet-paper tubes on the work table?”
“Yeah.”
Artdog gave a high-pitched yip that was more like a cry.
“Oh, Artdog. Not again.” Blossom sat down and pulled the dog onto her lap. She started looking over every part of his skin.
