Three Bird Summer

by Sara St. Antoine

  Alice carefully tucked the map inside her shirt. She’d been smarter about the bugs than I had, throwing on a long-sleeved red-checked shirt over her T-shirt. “There’s so much we don’t know,” she said with a sigh.

  “No point in getting wet, anyway,” I said. “Do you need a ride home in the canoe?”

  She shook her head as we began walking back to the cabin. “I’ve been bushwhacking more and more through the woods. Pretty soon I’ll have a regular path beaten down through all the poison ivy.”

  “You can call it Poison Ivy Parkway,” I said.

  “That’s beautiful,” Alice said sarcastically.

  We stood under a lone oak tree by Mom’s and Grandma’s cars. Alice gazed at the cabin with a thoughtful expression. “People were so charming back then, weren’t they? Can you imagine a guy today making a hand-drawn treasure map for his sweetheart?”

  “He wouldn’t even call her his sweetheart,” I said.

  “Good point,” she said. “And then naming the paths after animals. It’s so old-fashioned and cute. I miss the old days.”

  I laughed. “You weren’t even there.”

  “That’s why I miss them,” she said. She looked up at the treetops and spun around slowly, almost as if she were trying to wind back time with each turn of her body. But then she stopped and shook her head and gave me her usual smile. “So we’re done treasure hunting?” she asked.

  “I think so,” I said. I was actually relieved to be ending our search. What had started out as a fun diversion had turned into a lot of frustration.

  “Can I keep the map a little longer, anyway?” Alice asked. “I thought I might go over some of your grandma’s letters and see if there are any clues in them.”

  “Sure,” I said. “And do you want to do something later? I could teach you cribbage.”

  “Oh, um,” she said, looking uncomfortable, “I can’t. My dad and I are . . . doing something.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, hoping she’d explain.

  But all she said was, “Yeah. So another time.” She walked around our woodpile and began to pick her way through the enveloping trees down Poison Ivy Parkway.

  The rain continued as just a light sprinkle, so I didn’t hurry back inside. Instead, I leaned against the tree and looked at the cabin, trying to imagine going back in time twenty, forty, sixty years. How different would things have looked back then? Aside from the cars, there wasn’t much here to indicate the year. Just my mom’s New Balance running shoes on the deck, my fleece jacket hanging up to dry. But the cabin was the same. The trees were the same — taller, Grandma said, but still the same. The clothesline, the light fixtures, the rubber bucket where we washed the sand off our bare feet before stepping indoors — I was pretty sure these had been here, virtually unchanged, since the day the cabin was built. That was part of Grandma’s master plan. But wasn’t there still something else around us — some hum of activity, pushing and pulsing in the air, that we could feel standing here even if we couldn’t see it? Maybe it was our communications signals, buzzing around us. Or maybe it wasn’t the present at all, but the past and all its stories living on in this place — not buried and forgotten, but racing around unseen like a pack of ghosts so that we crashed into them at every turn without even quite knowing it.

  During lunch, I tried to ignore the tense conversation that had started up between Mom and Grandma. Not surprisingly, Mom was fixated on the calendar, trying to figure out how to get everything done before we left and trying to resolve what to do with Grandma. Just as predictably, Grandma found her tiresome.

  “Martin can come get me like he always does,” she told Mom. “I don’t know why you keep bringing this up.”

  “Because, Ma, you can’t stay here alone until he comes. Look at you — have you driven the Taurus even once this summer? How will you get food?”

  Grandma shrugged.

  “Maybe she could get weekly deliveries,” I suggested.

  Mom shot me an angry look, so I went back to my silent eating. But I couldn’t help feeling a little protective of Grandma. I remembered what Uncle Martin had said, about how she didn’t fence him in and he wasn’t going to do the same to her. Why was it just my mom who wanted to make everyone follow certain rules?

  I peered through the screen window and noticed that we still hadn’t had a downpour. No wonder the atmosphere felt so charged.

  “I’m trying to reason with you, Ma,” Mom said. “But at a certain point, I’m just going to make you do what I say. You know that, don’t you?”

  My grandmother looked up at my mother with a sudden flash of anger. “You’re treating me like an infant! This is my house, Bobbie. If I want, I can make you leave!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mom said. She picked up her dishes and half tossed them in the sink. Good thing they were made out of metal. “This is what I get for trying to take good care of you. Beautiful.”

  Ladies fighting. I hated it and felt a sudden longing for the old days, when my dad and uncles and cousins were around to fill the house with silliness and energy. Dad would know what to say to calm them both down, or at least he would have before he and Mom started their own arguing.

  I left the kitchen, grabbed some money from my room, and told the two of them I was going into town. Mom and Grandma weren’t even talking anymore, just brooding from opposite sides of the cabin. Never was I more grateful to Uncle Martin for the gift of his bike.

  THOMPSON’S DIME STORE had emptied piggy banks all over Hubbard County for decades. Kids loved the place: the squirt guns, beach balls, yo-yos, plastic tomahawks, cheesy paint-by-number sets. Supposedly Mr. Thompson had opened the store at a time when many things did sell for just a dime. Now the name was sort of a joke; even the windup tarantulas cost a dollar. But I didn’t care. It was still my favorite store in town.

  The bells chimed when I went inside, and the familiar smell of scented candles filled my nose. I turned to the toy and game section and started looking around. The jigsaw puzzles were usually tempting, but not these — too many soft-focus scenes of kittens and unicorns. I checked out the bins of plastic animals, packages of marbles, dart sets, playing cards. The amount of junk was impressive.

  The only thing that really captured my interest was a rubber crayfish, its antennae and pinchers hilariously wobbly. It reminded me of how Alice had looked dancing on the dock the day we’d played lake golf, and I couldn’t help chuckling.

  Then something else caught my eye. It was a black plastic chest about the size of a small shoe box and filled with fake gold coins and colorful gems. Pretend treasure, of course, for kids who were into pirates. But it got me thinking about what Alice had said, about how nobody ever made treasure maps anymore. Maybe I could bury a treasure chest and make a map showing her where to find it. And unlike G, I’d make sure my map was easy to follow.

  I looked again at the plastic chest. It would be kind of fun making a map and figuring out how to give her clues. But I’d need to fill it with something other than fake gems and gold — with something Alice would actually like. Then I remembered that the candy store usually sold coin-shaped chocolates covered with gold foil. I could fit a bunch of them in the chest. Maybe I’d even throw in the rubber crayfish. Alice would think it was hilarious.

  I bought the treasure chest and the crayfish from the salesclerk — an older teenager who looked at me like I was two instead of twelve.

  “It’s not for me,” I mumbled as he slid my purchases into a paper bag.

  “Whatever,” he said.

  I made my way down to the candy store and bought gold coins for Alice and a bag of malted milk balls for myself.

  It was still early in the afternoon, and I didn’t have any interest in getting home before dinner. So I headed over to the grocery store and spent the last of my money on a couple of new magazines. There was a bench at Pullman Park right next to the water and under the shade of the weeping willow. It was the perfect place to waste some time. I rode over to the park, p
ropped my bike against the tree, and sat down to read and munch on the malt balls.

  After an hour my mouth felt sticky and parched. I walked up the embankment toward the water fountain, halfway between the kids’ playground and the tennis courts. Someone had left pink gum stuck to the edge of the metal basin, but I ignored it and took a few big gulps of water. When I was done, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and was just about to return to my bench when I caught sight of a familiar figure on the tennis courts.

  It was Alice.

  She had her hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail and was dressed entirely in white — white dress, white tennis shoes, and white wristbands. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a sports catalog.

  On the other side of the net was a guy — about fifteen — dressed in a slightly more rumpled version of the same outfit. He had that old-school preppy look, where the clothes looked super expensive, but he was too cool to keep them neat.

  So this was her afternoon plan. And it wasn’t with her dad at all!

  I watched as Alice gathered up some balls — rolling them deftly up against the side of her foot with her tennis racquet, then sliding them onto the racquet to lift them to her hand. She tucked the extra balls under her dress — what did she have, pockets in her underwear? — and then positioned herself on the baseline. Her movements were seamless as she drew back the racquet, tossed the ball into the air, and then whacked it powerfully over the net. Mr. Preppy had no trouble returning it, but Alice ran to the net and smashed the ball into the front corner, where not even a pro could have reached it. Her opponent said something that sounded sarcastic, but Alice was already picking up another ball and jogging back to the baseline.

  It was then that she spotted me. For a moment, she hesitated, but then she waved her left hand eagerly in my direction, as if my catching her playing tennis with a country-club guy was the most normal thing in the world. I was glad we were too far apart to exchange words, too far even, I hoped, to see each other’s expressions. I waved halfheartedly, then headed back for my bike.

  A sparrow sat perched on my bag from the dime store. It fluttered away when I approached but left behind a piece of white bird poop that summed up perfectly how I now felt about the treasure chest and my stupid idea for making Alice her own map. What a fake she was, pretending to be some kind of down-to-earth nature geek with freaky toes and a love of science. In truth, she was what I’d always suspected her to be: a star athlete who hung out with preppy guys and who, once she was back home, would probably joke about the dorky guy she had to hang out with all summer.

  I picked up both bags and dumped them into a garbage can. Then, rethinking it, I reached into the one from the dime store and retrieved the rubber crayfish. I grabbed a stick off the ground and used it to bang every bench and bin in my path as I pushed my bike up the hill. Who was that preppy guy, anyway? I wondered. Alice’s boyfriend from the tennis team, visiting for the weekend? A friend of the family from the wealthy, suburban side of Three Bird Lake?

  As soon as I reached the parking lot, I tossed the stick and hopped on my bike. Maybe I heard my name being called as I rode away; maybe not. It didn’t matter anyway.

  I PEDALED OUT to the main road to the cabin, then cut onto the rail trail and biked as hard as I could, up and down the tree-lined hills. When the path opened up through fields, the sun was almost unbearably hot and the air was so thick, it was hard to breathe. But sweating felt good, and I ignored my growing thirst to make it a marathon ride.

  I reached the town of Dalton, where I found a drinking fountain and stretched my legs. When I turned back for home, the sun was a fuzzy yellow ball sinking down through the gray gloom. The fast ride out seemed to have drained some of my fury. I pedaled more slowly now, left with a feeling of disgust. As if I’d been tricked or let down. It reminded me of when I found out my favorite Cubs player — the guy who seemed so righteous for as long as I’d followed him — had actually been using steroids just like so many other players. How were you supposed to believe anyone in this world, if you couldn’t believe the ones who seemed the greatest?

  I almost felt like crying, which only made me madder. Come on, I told myself. Alice is just a girl. And it isn’t like we’re best friends or anything. Who cares if she’s been lying about who she really is?

  But I knew that it was more than that. Alice was also hope, in a way. Hope that someday I really could understand girls and be friends with them. Or even something more. And now that hope had been crushed.

  My legs were aching by the time I turned onto the dirt drive to Grandma’s cabin. Going over the bumps and roots sent shock waves up my arms to my elbows, so I kept my eyes trained right in front of my tire to choose as smooth a route as possible.

  That’s why I didn’t see Grandma’s station wagon until I was almost upon it.

  The car was stopped in the middle of the drive, angled awkwardly to one side, with the front end smashed into the trunk of a stout tree. I stopped, shocked by the sight of the car here in the road, and shocked by the damage. I peered through the window on the passenger side, but there was no one inside.

  I rode quickly to the cabin. Mom’s car was there, but there was no one around. Not even a note. For once I regretted the ancient technology of the cabin, which didn’t even have an answering machine. I also regretted not having my own cell phone, because Mom surely would have tried to call me. She carried hers sometimes, but I knew her well enough to know that she probably hadn’t kept it charged out here at the cabin. Still, I used the phone in the cabin to try the number, just in case. When it went straight to voice mail, I hung up and tried my dad at work. He didn’t answer, either, but I left a message asking if he’d heard anything.

  The cabin had never felt so empty — or so isolated. I wandered from room to room, looking to see if there were any clues to explain what had happened. But all I found was one of Grandma’s notes stuck into my mirror. I’d probably missed it that morning. The first part was written in blue pen:

  G,

  All I want is to be with you forever.

  Viola

  Scribbled at the bottom in pencil, she’d added:

  P.S. Who is the old lady?

  I threw the note in my drawer, no closer to knowing what had happened that afternoon. Had Mom made Grandma prove she could drive? Had Grandma fled in a huff? And how badly was everyone hurt? I thought about going back to the car and looking to see if there was any blood on the steering wheel, but I couldn’t bring myself to actually do it. Besides, I wasn’t even sure the windshield had been cracked. Maybe they hadn’t hit that hard.

  I wandered onto the deck and peered through the trees. It was unnaturally dark for this time of day, and a wind was picking up. The tree branches shuddered. I wrapped my arms around my body and tried to get a better view of the sky. As I suspected, tall dark clouds were gathering to the north. Just my luck. Here I was, all on my own at the cabin for the first time in my life, and it looked like we were about to get a serious storm. For a moment, I thought about running down Poison Ivy Parkway to the comfort of Alice’s house and family. But not after what I’d seen that afternoon. No, that path was a dead end. I was on my own.

  I found a flashlight in case the power went out, made a sandwich for my supper, and sat by the phone. Mom had her problems, but she wouldn’t forget about me.

  Sure enough, the phone rang just as angry raindrops started pelting the roof. But it wasn’t Mom. It was my dad.

  “Dad, what happened? Did Mom call you?”

  My dad’s voice was steady but tense. “Your grandmother had an accident, Adam. They’re at the hospital now.”

  “She was driving? By herself?” I asked.

  “I guess there’d been some sort of fight.”

  I grimaced, thinking of Mom and her needling ways. “Is Grandma OK?”

  “She hit her head on the steering wheel and now she’s disoriented, but they don’t think it’s anything too serious. Mom’s been waiting around while they
get her through X-rays and some other tests.”

  “Maybe she has a concussion,” I said, thinking about football players who banged their heads too hard in games.

  “Probably,” Dad said. “Anyway, Mom has no idea how long she’ll be there. If it starts getting late, she wants you to call your neighbors — the Jensens, is it? — and ask them if you can spend the night over there.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I said.

  “I know, Adam. But she’d feel better knowing you were with other people.”

  “I tried calling her cell phone,” I told my dad.

  “The battery’s out,” he said. “She says she left the charger at home. But I’m sure she’ll try you again soon.”

  “So why’s her car still here?”

  “Grandma’s car was blocking the drive,” Dad explained. “So she hopped in with the ambulance.”

  There was a long silence after that. Dad and I weren’t very good at talking on the phone. A whole summer was going by, and I’d hardly shared any of my news. I hadn’t told him about Memory Guy or Grandma’s notes or the secret treasure or even Alice. So after a few more strained minutes, we said good-bye and hung up.

  I went to the windows and watched the rain slapping the deck. I couldn’t get to the Jensens’ in this downpour anyway. There was no point in calling — I didn’t have anything to say, and the last thing I wanted to do was talk to Alice. Instead, I turned on the radio and listened to a ball game while I washed up the dishes. Even without Grandma here, I could feel her eyes on me. I took the time to dry the plates and put them away.

  The phone rang again. This time it was Mom.

  “Oh, Adam, I’m so glad you’re home now. Did Dad get in touch with you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “How’s Grandma?”

  Mom sighed. “So-so. She’s still a bit fuzzy.”

  “From the concussion?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure if that’s what it is. We’ll be getting test results back in a little while, and then I’ll let you know.”