by Sarah Beard
Her penciled eyebrows raised a notch, and her lips curved into an almost mischievous smile. “Why don’t you come in my room and let me do your hair and makeup.”
What I really wanted to do was go home and spend the evening with Beethoven and Clementi, but the pleading look on Vivian’s face told me she needed my company more. So I consented to stay and play as her dress-up doll. She sat me down at the vanity in her bedroom and ran her fingers through my unruly waves. “Most girls would kill for your looks,” she said, studying me. “That long dark hair and milky complexion. You’re like porcelain and earth.”
She reached for a makeup brush and dabbed some rouge on it before brushing it over my cheeks. I looked up at her and thought how she was the pretty one, with her clear skin, green eyes, and full mouth, and I wondered why she didn’t have a man in her life.
“Vivian, what happened with you and your husband? I mean, why did you get divorced?” As soon as the words were out, I realized what a rude, nosy question it was. But she didn’t even flinch.
“Honey, I used to pick men the same way I picked accessories. As long as they looked good around my neck or slung over my shoulder, I didn’t care about the price.” She picked up an eyeliner pencil. “Shut your eyes.” I did, and I felt her precise, confident strokes above my lashes. “My husband was the most gorgeous accessory you’d ever seen. Full head of golden hair, a smile like a crescent moon. But he turned out to be one bull shark of a purse. And I realized in the end, he wasn’t worth the price I was paying.”
I opened my eyes. “And so you left?”
She sighed and gave a sharp nod. “A woman shouldn’t have to pay anything for a good man, because a good man gives himself to you for free. So I tossed him in the trash like the worthless piece of dollar-store jewelry he was.”
I smiled. “Well, I hope you find a free designer man someday.”
“I think I may have found one,” she said with a loaded tilt of her brow, “but I’m not so sure he’s free.”
I knew she was referring to Dad, but not wanting to encourage her, I didn’t say anything. She didn’t know Dad very well, and if she did, she would realize that not only was he broken goods, he was far from free.
“Now,” she said, brushing a last touch of lipstick on my lips. “Let’s go over and visit the Ashbys.”
“Uh, no,” I objected, shaking my head. “I think I’ll just head home.”
“Look at you, Aria!” She turned me to face the mirror. “You look gorgeous. It would be a waste for you to sit here with me all night. You need an admirer!”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do! Come on,” she pleaded. “We’ll bring them a pie. I have an extra one in the kitchen.”
“But why would I tag along with you to bring them a pie?”
“Who cares? It’s Friday night. Thomas is probably out with friends anyway.”
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll go.” I grabbed a tissue and dabbed off some lipstick. “Can we at least soften my eyes a little? If he is there and I show up like this, he’ll think I’m only trying to get his attention.”
“You are trying to get his attention.”
“I’m not. He’s my friend. He only sees me as a friend.”
She pulled me to my feet. “Come on!”
She picked up the pie from the kitchen and I followed her out the front door. Vivian walked fast, like an ostrich on a mission, and I had to hop every few steps to keep pace.
“So what’s our story again?” I asked as we walked down Thomas’s sycamore-lined dirt driveway.
“We don’t need a story, honey. We tell it like it is.” She looked over at me. “Don’t look so scared, darlin’. It’s not like we’re walking into the jaws of death.”
On Thomas’s doorstep, Vivian handed me the pie. She rang the doorbell, then leaned over and whispered, “By the way honey, you made the pie.”
“What? No, I didn’t!” I tried to give the pie back.
“You did.” She waved a dismissive hand, rejecting the pie. “And don’t be so modest about it!”
“No, Vivian. I—” The door opened before I could finish my objection.
four
Well, hello!” A petite, brunette woman opened the door. She was covered in white dust, from her friendly face down to her canvas sneakers.
“Hi, Elsie,” Vivian said, then gestured to me. “I don’t think you’ve met your neighbor, Aria.”
“So this is Aria! Thomas has told me all about you.”
“He has?”
Vivian nudged me, but I felt a touch of panic as I wondered just how much Thomas had told her.
“I came by Aria’s tonight,” Vivian said, “and she said she was makin’ this delicious pie to bring to ya’ll.” She gestured to the pie in my hands.
“Is this for Thomas’s birthday?” Elsie asked.
“It’s his birthday?” Vivian exclaimed. “What a coincidence!”
While Vivian went on, puffing me up and lying about my pie-making abilities, Thomas approached the doorway and stood behind his mom. Like her, his dark hair and shoulders were dusted white.
“Oh, hi Thomas!” Vivian said. “Happy birthday! Anyway, Aria let me come along to deliver the pie so I could say hi.”
I wanted to tell them Vivian was lying and smash the pie in her face, but instead I handed it to Elsie and smiled.
“Well, how sweet of you,” Elsie said. “What kind of pie is it?”
I glanced at the pie in her hands. “Apple?”
“Perfect—we have ice cream in the kitchen. Why don’t you two come in and join the party?”
“I would stay,” Vivian said, “but I’ve got some errands to run. But Aria told me she’s free tonight.”
I pictured the banana-caramel pie she’d made for Dad smeared all over her front door. Vivian pranced away and I turned back to Thomas, who was staring at me with a little lopsided smile.
“So,” I said, “it’s your birthday.”
“Yeah—I’m finally old enough to vote. And get drafted. And be tried as an adult.”
His mom slugged him in the arm. “I’m going to put this pie in the kitchen. Come on in, Aria. But watch where you step; it’s like a war zone in here.”
I hesitated, feeling awkward about crashing Thomas’s birthday party. “Well . . . happy birthday. I should probably get my homework done since I have to work—”
He leaned down and grabbed my wrist, stopping me midsentence. “You have time for cake.” He pulled me inside and closed the door behind me. Now I saw why everyone was covered in dust. The inside of Mr. Euler’s house had been scraped to the bare bones, like an empty rib cage half-buried in sand. The wall separating the kitchen from the living room was stripped to the studs, and broken plaster littered the carpet-less floor.
He led me through piles of rubble to the kitchen where, other than Mr. Euler’s old bulbous fridge, the walls were devoid of appliances and cabinets. “It’s not much of a party,” Thomas said, letting go of my wrist. “Most of my friends are on another continent.”
A man pushed away from a folding table and stood, offering his hand. He was tall like Thomas, but with a thinner frame. A film of white dust coated his glasses, and his smile was broad and infectious. “You must be the famous Aria Kinsley.” He took my hand and gave it a firm shake. “Hal Ashby.”
“Famous?” I asked warily.
“Famous around here, anyway. Thomas talks about you all the—”
“Dad.” Thomas shot him a warning look, then glanced at me. “I told them how you’ve been riding to school with me, and that’s it.”
Hal sat back down, a glint of playfulness in his eyes. He gestured to a folding chair, and I sat. On the folding table was a half-empty box of pizza and a Powerpuff Girls birthday cake.
Thomas must have seen me curiously eyeing the cake because he said, “My dad said it was the only one left, but I think it’s just retaliation for winning our last Scrabble match.”
“Don’t believe a word he says,�
� Hal said, “I’ve never seen a more enthusiastic Powerpuff Girls fan.”
“And I’ve never seen someone try to spell ‘pharaoh’ with an ‘f.’ ”
As they exchanged lighthearted jabs, I couldn’t help contrasting their easy banter with my typically tense conversations with Dad. And the way Elsie smiled affectionately at the two of them tugged something loose inside me. I tried not to grieve over Mom, especially when others were around. I didn’t want them to know how much losing her still hurt, because after five years, people expected me to be over it.
Elsie must have mistaken my discomfort for hunger because she put a slice of pizza on a paper plate. She had no sooner placed it in front of me than an enormous black cat bounded up on the table and nabbed a piece of my sausage.
“Tank!” Thomas slid his arm under the fat cat and dropped it to the floor.
“Sorry,” Elsie said. “Pizza’s his favorite.”
Tank’s paws lunged over the side of the table again, but this time the rest of his body didn’t make it. His claws sunk into the tablecloth and took everything—Powerpuff Girls cake included—to the floor.
Tank shot out of the room like a black torpedo, and we all sat there a moment, still and silent as Dad’s taxidermy projects. I glanced at Hal, expecting him to be livid, but his mouth turned up into an amused smile. “Sorry, Thomas. I know how much you liked that cake.”
Thomas picked up a plate of cake from the windowsill and ate a forkful. “S’okay. I saved a piece.”
“Well, it’s a good thing Aria made us a pie,” Elsie said, and my cheeks suddenly felt warm. She stood and licked her thumb, then wiped a dab of white frosting from Thomas’s cheek.
“Come on, Mom!” He cringed. “I’m eighteen, remember? I can wipe my own face.”
“You don’t have to be so embarrassed just because there’s a beautiful girl in the house.” She grabbed a broom and started sweeping the pizza from the floor. “He doesn’t have any sisters,” she whispered to me, “and he’s not used to being around girls.”
“And just because there’s a beautiful girl in the house,” he echoed, “doesn’t mean you have to roast me.” He set his plate down and scooped the bulk of the massacred cake into the pizza box.
“No daughters?” I asked Elsie.
“No, just two troublesome boys,” Thomas answered for her. I glanced at him, expecting to see a playful smile, but his face was strangely somber.
“Maybe you’ll have a granddaughter someday,” I said.
Elsie nodded and smiled, but it was fleeting and didn’t touch her eyes. A tangible tension settled over the room, and she swept in silence, like her thoughts were suddenly elsewhere.
Hal dropped his head and pursed his lips. Thomas turned away and quietly dumped the cake in the trash. The mood had shifted from jovial to serious in a matter of seconds, and I wondered if I’d said something wrong.
Hal rose and took the broom from Elsie. “I’ll get this.” She nodded, but she didn’t make eye contact with anyone as she quietly excused herself from the room. Hal patted Thomas on the shoulder and gave him a consoling smile, then began sweeping. “Do you have brothers and sisters, Aria?”
I wasn’t sure if he was really interested in knowing, or if he was just trying to distract me from the gloom hovering over the room.
“No,” I said, watching Thomas slowly compose his face. I stood and picked the tablecloth off the floor. “It’s just me.”
“Here,” Thomas said with an outstretched arm, “I’ll put that in the laundry.” I handed it to him, and he disappeared down the hall where his mom had gone.
“So,” Hal said with forced enthusiasm, “you ever heard of iridology?”
Another distraction, I thought. “No,” I said, sitting down and playing along. “What’s that?”
“I hadn’t either, until I was commissioned to write an article about it. Would you believe that the iris of the eye can reveal a person’s state of health?”
I gave him a skeptical look.
“Here, I’ll show you what I mean.” He put the broom aside and sat across from me, pointing to his left eye. “Now, see the little dark spot here under my pupil?”
I leaned forward and stared at his eye, but all I noticed was that they were the same bright blue as Thomas’s.
“Come on, Dad,” Thomas groaned as he walked back into the room. His cheerful countenance had returned, and he offered an apologetic smile. “Do I have to be embarrassed by both my parents tonight?”
“I’m just showing her something. Here, Thomas,” he said, standing up. “Sit down across from Aria.”
Thomas indulged his dad and sat down across from me.
“Now, lean in close.” Thomas leaned toward me. “Both of you.” I leaned forward until our faces were a foot apart.
As Hal explained the theory of iridology and how certain lines in Thomas’s eyes could be linked to childhood illnesses, I was more intrigued by how gazing into Thomas’s eyes made me feel. My heart seemed to beat a little faster, and a nervous flutter grazed my insides. The slight curve of his lips made me wonder if he felt it too. His eyes were expressive, filled with a thousand untold stories. There was something else in his eyes—something I recognized because I saw it every time I looked in the mirror: pain. Not the acute, fleeting type, but the kind that nails down stakes and stays for a while. It was barely noticeable, but it was there.
“You going to read my palms next?” Thomas asked with a smirk.
“No—but you’ve given me an idea for my next project.”
“My dad writes magazine articles,” Thomas explained, leaning back into his folding chair.
“For what kind of magazine?”
“Any magazine, any topic imaginable. Gardening to robots.” Hal folded his arms proudly across his chest. “Something sparks my interest, so I learn about it, then write about it so other people can learn about it too.”
Elsie didn’t come back into the room as we talked, and Thomas occasionally threw a concerned glance at the hallway.
“Thomas,” Hal said, “maybe you could set up the telescopes this week for your mom. She could probably use some sky time after all the work we’ve been doing.”
“Already done. The tree house needs some cleaning up though. And one of the windows is broken.”
A little gasp escaped my lips as I remembered that Mom’s music notebook was still sitting in the cabinet there.
Thomas glanced at me curiously, and I pushed out my chair. “I should go,” I said, eager to get the notebook before he found it.
He followed me to the porch, and I expected him to stay there, but then he followed me down the steps. “I’ll walk you home.”
“It’s okay,” I said, turning and walking backward. “It’s not far.”
He looked up at the sky. “There’s not much of a moon. What if you get lost in the dark?”
I stopped and heaved an internal sigh. “I’m actually not going home right away.”
“No?” He took a step toward me. “Where are you going?”
“To the tree house,” I admitted. “I left something there.”
“Are you sure? I didn’t see anything there when I was setting up the telescope.”
“Yes—it’s in one of the cabinets.”
He considered this a moment, then held up a finger. “Wait here.” He ducked inside and came out a few minutes later with a lit lantern. “Come on.” He tipped his head toward the tree house. “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I want to.” He smiled and started toward the tree house, and I followed him through the cavern of trees surrounding his house. The night was warm, filled with the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze and crickets chirping in the long grass.
“I have something to confess,” I said as I caught up to him.
“Another confession?” He glanced at me and lifted an eyebrow.
“I didn’t make the pie.”
He grinned. “I know.”
“You do? How?”
“From the bewildered look on your face when Vivian said you made it.”
“Oh.” I shook my head and laughed lightly, then recounted how I’d ended up on his doorstep with the pie in my hands.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “It was nice to celebrate my birthday with someone other than my parents.”
The trees grew denser as we entered the aspen grove, and the lantern lit up the white trunks, encompassing us in a luminous orb. It felt intimate, sharing a little place of light with him in the dark world.
“Your mom was upset tonight,” I said carefully. “Did I say something wrong?”
He inhaled deeply through his nose and released a long sigh. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”
“But she was upset?”
“She’s ultrasensitive about certain things. Particularly about grandkids.”
“Why?”
He met my eyes, and with soberness in his own said, “She did have a granddaughter.”
“Did?” Suddenly Elsie’s reaction to my “granddaughter” comment made sense. “What happened?”
In the light of the lantern, I saw something change in his face. His brows drew together tightly and his lips flattened into a taut line. He didn’t answer right away, and his silence was somehow intensified by the sound of twigs snapping beneath our footsteps. Finally, he said softly, “She died.”
“I’m sorry.” The words sounded so inadequate. I had the urge to reach for his hand to offer comfort, but I resisted. “Was she your brother’s baby?”
“Yes. Her name was Emily.”
“That must have been really hard for him.”
“It was hard on us all.” He looked at me and tried to smile, but abandoned it half-formed. “So . . . what exactly did you leave in the tree house?”
I was thrown off for a second by the abrupt change of topic, but quickly took the hint that he didn’t want to talk about it. “Just a notebook.”
“It must be important if you’re willing to walk through a dark forest to retrieve it.”
I thought about telling him how it was filled with Mom’s and my music, but feared it would somehow get back to Dad. “It’s just some ideas I’ve jotted down.”
