by Jen Bryant
Maybe Gramps was planning a last
solo trip
in his little sailboat down our own lazy
river,
just like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn did
with their raft
on the Mississippi. This also makes me want
to cry, but I
try not to so I don’t smudge the blueprint.
I fold over
Number Two and when I open Number Three,
I see there’s
some sort of letter stapled to the upper
left-hand corner.
The letter says:
April 25, 1968
Dear Mr. Bradley:
I received your letter and the maps in question on March 15. Thank you for sending them to my attention. Since then, I have checked your documents against several reliable sources in our company’s possession, as well as with the archives of the State Geological Survey.
The result, I am pleased to inform you, is that I find your calculations on the shift in course of the Mullica River, and in particular as it pertains to the section that now runs west of the town of Willowbank, to be entirely correct. I hope I have been of some good assistance.
Fee for research and calculations = $75—payable by check, due in thirty days.
Sincerely,
John McGraw
John McGraw, civil engineer
Everhardt, McGraw, and Weibner Associates
This one puzzles me.
It’s also a map—but more like a picture,
drawn by hand and stamped
with the initials L.B.
in one of the lower corners.
At the top, it says “Mullica River—
approximation of its location in 1699.”
In the other lower corner is the signature
of the engineer, John McGraw,
who wrote the letter
back to Gramps
about checking his maps and facts.
I look at the date again: 1699.
Why would Gramps be interested
in where the Mullica River ran
way back then—which was even way before
Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn?
I hear Denise’s big bare feet slapping up the stairs.
I quick stack the maps back together,
stuff them inside the envelope,
which I turn
over this time. I see then that I’ve missed
one thing that is noted on the flip
side, in Gramps’ precise handwriting:
Brigantine Historical Society:
File 276, drawer 11, document 7
and below that is a brass key
taped to the paper.
I place the envelope
and all of its contents in the box
beneath the photo of Grandma and Gramps,
the plates, and the rosebud vase,
where I know it will be safe from Denise’s prying eyes,
since she has no interest in anything
she can’t smoke, wear, or sing.
Part 3
Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken
And many times confused.
—from “American Tune”
by Paul Simon
Now I’m just plain frustrated. Our visit to Tuckahoe
was two whole weeks ago and every night since,
when Dad and Denise are at work and Carolann
has to entertain the twins so her mother can clean up
after dinner, I climb the stairs, empty the brown
envelope, spread out everything on my desk
and all across my bedroom floor, and try to
make sense of it. So far, here’s what I’ve got:
As a Navy navigator, my grandfather
planned routes for ships to travel across the seas
and open oceans. OK, I get that. But then, for some
strange reason, he got very interested in the Mullica—
not an ocean, but our very own South Jersey river,
the one that flows just west of town,
the one his gravestone looks over.
Try as I might, I can’t reason it out. Maybe Gramps
was getting senile. Maybe he just made up
some wild plan for a solo voyage along the river
as a way to escape, kind of like we used to do
together when I’d visit. But then—what about his
hand-drawn map of the Mullica in 1699?
I did figure out one thing: “L.B.” is most probably
himself, Lewis Bradley. Anyway, that map is drawn
on thin paper—almost like onionskin, almost like
it was supposed to be see-through. (Ha! Maybe Denise
can use it for a shirt.) So, OK … I lay it on top of
the map of the river labeled 1968, and I see
right away it shows that how the river flows now
is not the same as how the river flowed back then.
I look through my kaleidoscope awhile
to clear my mind. Then I read over again that one
part of the engineer’s letter: “I find your calculations
on the shift in course of the Mullica River, and in particular
as it pertains to the section that now runs west of the town
of Willowbank, to be entirely correct.” I didn’t know
a river could shift; I wonder, is this guy McGraw for real?
Or is he simply trying to get some fast cash from a
tired old sailor? I lie on my back and stare at the
cracks in the ceiling, branching off in a dozen
separate directions like little streams flowing from
a larger body of water. “Tributaries” is what
Mr. Bellamy called them last week when he
reviewed some terms for our Earth Science test,
(which I barely passed, even though I actually
studied this time). Only six days of eighth grade left.
Too bad—just when I’m finding a use for geology.
“Can a river shift?”
I blurt out at the end of science class,
after the bell has rung,
after everyone else has left.
Mr. Bellamy looks at me like I have
two heads. I don’t blame him.
All year, I’ve only asked two other questions
in his class: “Can I please use the bathroom pass?”
and “Can I do some extra credit
to raise my D-minus?”
When he’s shaken off his shock, he says:
“Well, yes … if you mean, Lyza,
can a river change its course over time—
then yes, absolutely, it most certainly can!”
He seems pleased to see that I’m at last
showing an interest in his class,
even if it is a little late.
He looks at me curiously. “Why do you ask?”
I hesitate. “Well…
I was reading something at my gramps’ place …”
(which is true)
“and it made me wonder …”
I don’t say it was a hand-drawn map
of the Mullica River in 1699. He might get
curious
and I’m not ready yet to let
anyone else know about this, especially a teacher.
So … I just let him think it was an atlas,
something normal like that.
Mr. Bellamy buys it.
He shifts into full-throttle teacher mode:
“The earth, Lyza, is in a constant state of change….”
(waves hands excitedly)
“The atmosphere, bodies of water, and tectonic plates
are constantly interacting
(weaves fingers together to demonstrate)
to re-create the geography we see around us…”
(spreads arms out wide as if those plates
and bodies were right ins
ide his classroom)
He has other things to say about
the earth, and he says most of them in the next
twenty minutes.
I try to listen, but I already have what I need:
a second opinion on the question
of shifting rivers,
which seems now to be a lot more
fact than fiction.
I “X” through another box on the calendar.
Another whole week has passed, school’s out,
and I’m still no further along in the mystery of Gramps’ maps
than I was before.
Except… I know a river can
shift,
and that my former-navigator grandfather
felt he needed to draw a map
of how the Mullica River flowed in 1699,
and to pay some engineer guy to verify
that he drew it right.
But I don’t know why I need to know that.
So what’s the use?
Then there’s the key—
which doesn’t seem to belong to anything
either here or back in Tuckahoe
(I checked before we left; it didn’t fit any
of Gramps’ doors or kitchen cabinets,
the garden shed, or the garage).
Then there’s that note on the back of the envelope
about some document and file
at the Brigantine Historical Society.
But I don’t have a license or a car … so how can I
get there and still keep this a secret
from Denise and Dad, which I assume is what Gramps
wanted me to do, or why else
would he have addressed the envelope
just to me?
“FOR LYZA ONLY” is the part that bothers me,
the part I’ve been thinking a lot more about lately
because his letter also said:
If there’s a right time to share it, I’m sure you’ll know.
So … is tonight the right time?
“Adventures are better together,” Gramps used to say
whenever we planned a journey in the attic.
“Plus if you get into trouble, there’s always
someone near
to lend a hand, save you from going under
when the current’s too strong, when the seas get rough.”
I take my kaleidoscope off the shelf,
where I’ve kept it ever since Mom left.
Funny—coming from her, it was the perfect gift:
colorful, like she always was;
slim, which is how I remember her;
and mostly … unpredictable.
I turn the cylinders
around and
around and
around until I find a brand-new pattern,
in hopes that my brain
might catch on and do the same.
I put the kaleidoscope
aside, look at the maps again.
Well, that doesn’t work.
OK, I need to face it: I am either too dumb or too chicken
to figure out this map thing
alone.
I roll off my bed, slide down the banister,
pick up the hallway phone.
I dial Malcolm’s number. He’s home.
“Be over in ten,” he says loud enough
to be heard over
his dad’s Louis Armstrong records.
I go into the living room, lift
the front window, yell across to Carolann,
who’s teaching the twins
how to play Mother, may I?
She waves when she hears me, picks them up—
one twin under each arm—
and carries them inside. She reappears on the porch steps
with three bottles of soda
and a big bag of Wise potato chips.
You know, I may not be able
to count on my family,
but my friends, at least, are as steady as they come.
They sit, leaning back, against the foot of my bed.
I sit across from them and explain
everything:
—how I discovered the envelope in the attic
—how I found the note from Gramps
—how I unfolded each of the maps
—how I read the letter from the engineer
—how I asked Mr. Bellamy about shifting rivers
—how I’d been racking my tired brain for answers
I tell them about the key and about
the note Gramps wrote on the back of the envelope,
the one about the drawer, file, and document
over in Brigantine.
I tell them I’ve been wanting to go
to check it out
but have no way of doing so
without giving away Gramps’ secret.
I tell them all of it…. Then I ask: “So … what do you think?”
Malcolm nods slowly, continuously, like he’s
one of those little dogs in the
back window of someone’s Chevy.
He stays quiet.
Carolann stuffs a bunch of potato chips
into her mouth.
She chews, swallows, takes a swig
of her soda, swipes the back of her wrist
across her lips.
“Far out!” she says.
I thought for sure
that three brains
would be better
than one.
I had assumed that
as soon as I told
Carolann and Malcolm
about Gramps’ notes
and his maps,
I’d immediately
feel relieved,
that we’d immediately,
all three, together,
see something obvious
that I, by myself,
had missed.
I
was
so
wrong.
Before they leave
to go back home,
I make them both
swear on my
father’s Bible
that they will
not tell a soul
about Gramps’
project, that they
will not say one
single word to
their parents
or their friends
or their brothers
or any future
boyfriends or
girlfriends they
might someday
have. I am not
worried about
Malcolm, who is
shy and quiet
by nature.
I am worried more
about Carolann
but not because
she would ever
mean to say
anything about
our secret
but it’s just that
she’s always
flitting here
and there
and it’s in her
nature to share—
and so I make her,
even though her
parents raised her
as a Quaker
(and they don’t
believe in taking
oaths), I make her
swear twice
on the Bible
just to be sure.
Malcolm and I go shopping for
a couple of 45s at Bassline,
the record store
where Hairy Harry works part-time.
We buy “I Was Made to Love Her” by Stevie Wonder
and “Respect” by Aretha Franklin.
Then we walk next door to the five-and-dime
and buy ourselves two orange Creamsicles
and a copy of today’s local news,
which we take the comics out of and use
to wrap up the records
for his brother’s nineteenth
birthday.
Dixon Dupree is the kind of brother
every kid should have:
he plays guitar, works at the lumberyard,
and last year as a senior at Willowbank High
he had fifteen home runs, thirty-five RBIs,
and was the team’s MVP for the second time.
Plus Dixon’s nice … a kind of anti-Denise.
Whenever I see him in town
or walking past our house after work,
Dixon always asks
how I am,
what I’m doing,
how’s it going with my summer … stuff like that,
questions that most older kids
don’t ask me.
Anyway, a few hours later,
when I arrive at the Duprees’
at half past seven
to watch the Phillies play the Mets on CBS,
Dixon is sitting on the top step of the porch,
reading a letter.
He does not
look up when I walk by.
He does not
say “Hey there, Lyza …,” like he always does.
He does not
ask how I am or if everything is cool with my summer.
Instead,
he keeps staring, staring, staring at the letter.
When Malcolm opens the door,
I can see over his shoulder into the kitchen,
where Mrs. Dupree is crying into her apron
with Mr. Dupree trying to comfort her,
and before I can turn and leave them
to whatever bad news it is,
Malcolm grips my wrist and pulls me
behind him upstairs to the den, directly
opposite his room.
When he turns around, I can clearly see
that he looks close to crying, too.
Now I am feeling really weird, ’cause I have not
seen Malcolm cry since kindergarten,
when the older white kids
teased and bullied him
through the playground fence.
“Dixon’s got drafted,” he says, sitting
down on the top of the desk, still looking like
he might explode into sadness any minute.
I don’t know what to do.
