by Gae Polisner
Sometimes Mom still has us run things over here to Thea’s. A few months ago, Mom sold a ring that Rand gave her.
Justin and me were the ones who brought the ring over, and I could see how sad being at Thea’s still makes him, because while Thea was examining the ring, Justin was staring at the row of cufflinks, his eyes all watery, which made me wonder if maybe he saw a pair he thought belonged to Dad. Anyway, the ring ended up fetching a whole $250, and so even though Mom said Rand would never spend that kind of money on her, he did, because the three small diamond chips were real.
“Go figure,” Mom had said, with a big sad sigh, when Thea called to tell her to pick up the money.
And that was exactly the thing about Rand that made him so hard to be mad at: he could drink too much and be a jerk, but he could also take you out fishing or give you a nice diamond ring. He wasn’t all good or all bad.
“She’s fine. She’s at work,” I say now, wanting to answer at least one of the questions Thea puked out at me. “At the diner. And Justin is out in the Angler with a friend. The inflatable boat, I mean.” I try to look at her as I talk, to be respectful, but my eyes are also busy scoping out the place, because I need to find somewhere safe but noticeable to hide the next clue. Something that will mean something special to Joy.
“Ah, well, that’s good to hear. You boys do love the water, don’t you? And a little hard work never hurt anyone, don’t you agree?”
I look back at Thea and nod. Only then do I fully notice the weird little hat she’s wearing, light purple felt with blue-and-green feathers, feathers that belong to a sequined peacock that struts along its edge.
Only Thea could wear a hat like that and get away with it. I mean, no offense, but she’s a little weird, but in a fun way. She has gray hair she dyes too-bright red, and she wears stretchy pants covered in flowers, or old jeans covered with a hundred different patches, like peace signs and rainbow hearts and birds. And there’s a sweet powder smell every time you walk too close to her.
“You like it?” she asks, watching my face and tapping the hat, then nods to a wooden rack covered with more colorful hats way over against the far wall. “A bunch more just came in. Someone who used to own a specialty hat shop and had these all in his basement for years. But this one, this one is a real beaut.” Thea twirls like she’s modeling. “Vintage pillbox with faux pearls, sequins, even a bridal veil,” she adds, pulling a lavender net that’s tucked somewhere behind the hat down over her eyes. “A stunner, don’t you think? I’ve taken to wearing a different one every day since he dropped them off, just for the fun of it. It’s for sale if you want it. Only three dollars. Two for you, because you’re my guy.”
I nearly start laughing, because why on earth would I ever want to own a peacock hat? But also because it’s so perfect. The most perfect place ever to stash the next clue. Perfect because of Dana Arlington and her know-it-all self correcting me and Joy one day during a group project in Mr. McKenna’s class last year.
“Just so you all know,” Dana instructed, in this fake teachery voice, “a group of peacocks isn’t called peacocks. Peacocks are just the males. Peahens are the females. So if you’re referring to them all, you mean peafowl.”
That alone almost made me die laughing, but then I looked over at Joy, and she looked back at me, and then she turned back to Dana Arlington, all innocent.
“I’m confused,” she said. “Which are the boy ones again? The hens?”
And Dana was so busy being smart, she didn’t realize, and said, “No, the cocks are the boys, and hens are the girls, and you can remember it because, as with chickens, the girls are the hens.”
“Oh right, great,” Joy had said. “So that’s how you can remember it?” By then I was bent over laughing, like, practically peeing my pants, and Dana was nodding, all proud for having taught us all something, until she suddenly caught on to us laughing, since Joy had slunk so far down in her chair, she was practically on the floor.
After that, no matter what, Joy and I only referred to peacocks as peafowl, always asking pretend-confused after, “But is the boy the cock or the hen?” which you’d think wasn’t so often, because who talks about peacocks all that much? But for weeks after, we did. We stuck the word peafowl into everything we said, which was, sure, immature, but funny as heck, so we couldn’t help ourselves.
“So, did you want it?” Thea asks, pulling a pin from the side of the hat. She lifts it off her head and holds it out to me.
I wish I could. Seriously. I wish I had two dollars, and maybe a tip to pay her for helping me out, but I don’t, because I spent it all on the pendant, and, anyway, I only want to borrow the hat, not own it. I want it to stay in the shop and hide the clue, maybe in a spot in the window.
I take a deep breath. “I can’t buy it today, Thea,” I say. “But I’m wondering something else. Do you think you could do me a great big favor?”
It’s hard to tell and I can’t be sure, but I think this is the same woman from the time I was here with Lukas and his mom.
Thea.
I don’t really remember what that lady looked like, except she wore crazy clothes. I do remember that, and this woman is wearing tight, faded denim overalls, with a red-and-white-striped leotard underneath and several strands of colorful beads around her neck. Her jet-black hair most definitely had to come out of a box of Clairol.
Thea?
Can you please tell me?
Is this Thea?
I guess she is.
But maybe she’s the owner and her name is not Thea, but Angel, as in Angel’s Consignments.
Or maybe she’s really an angel.
“Can I help you?” she says. Her voice is deep and husky. I remember that, too.
I resist the urge to turn and head right back out. Only I’ve come this far, which really wasn’t very far, but it still feels huge. And as hard as it is to imagine there is anything here for me, I have to be brave. I have to look.
Ask for her by name,
8-4-3-2.
I have to ask. “Are you Thea?”
She nods.
“I’m Lukas’s friend,” I say. “Lukas Brunetti? Do you remember me?”
She has a blank sort of look on her face.
“I’m Joy,” I say.
It sounds so strange to hear my name out loud, even if it’s me saying it. Which is strange, since I am plenty used to people using my name as a word.
“Joy to the World.”
Joyride.
Jump for joy, that one gets me a lot of teasing.
Our bundle of joy.
You name it, I’ve heard it.
But I’m not joy. I mean, I am Joy, but I haven’t been joyful in a long time.
“Lukas’s friend…” She says it slowly. “Lukas Brunetti…And you’re Joy?”
Even though I’ve just told her that. I say, “Yeah, I’m Joy Fonseca.”
My answer suddenly sends her into a bustle of activity, like she’s just stepped on a nest of red ants, which I’ve done before, by the way. “Yes, yes. I remember now.” She’s waving her arms around.
When she moves, a spray of dust and a hint of lilac lift into the air. “It has to be here somewhere.”
She points. “I had it there. In the window for so long, then of course it was the hurricane and I had to move everything. I mean, the whole downtown, remember? We didn’t know what was going to happen with the seawall and everything. Wasn’t that something? A superstorm, they called it. We seem to be having them a lot these days.”
As she is talking—I assume to me—she is opening and closing cabinets, running her hand over the top shelf of a stand-up wardrobe, lifting the lid off a big round box made of fabric. “I wasn’t sure what to do with it…after…afterwards, if I should even mention it. It just didn’t ever seem like a good time, but I do know I put
it somewhere for safekeeping.”
“So it is here? I am in the right place?” I start slowly, but I feel like I still need to ask. “You are Thea, then?”
She stops fluttering about and looks right at me. “Oh yes, sweetheart. And you’re here for the note from Lukas Brunetti, right?” Her voice catches on his name. “I know his mom well. I know both of them. I mean, all three of them, but I’ve known Melissa for a long time. She’s good people. She always did right by her boys. More loss than any one woman should have to bear, but she’s strong. She’ll be okay. So will Justin.”
So I’ve come to the right place; I found the third clue, but this time I don’t feel the same elation. It’s too personal in here, too close. I don’t want to talk about Lukas; I just want to find the clue and get out of here. I’m not sure I want to hear about him from someone else, either.
Thea keeps talking. “This is a funny business, you know, so personal. I mean, when people are selling their stuff, it usually is, but then I have these things, and I feel a responsibility. People need the money, but sometimes I think it’s more than that. No matter how much you give away, memories stick around, inside the lining of a coat or in the design of a salad bowl or on the pages of an old book. Memories stick around, even when you are trying to forget them.”
“So Lukas did leave something for me?”
“Oh right, yes. The note. The note. It’s been so long…but, of course, you know that.” Thea lets her eyes rest on me for a split second, as if she’s worried she’s hurt my feelings or said the wrong thing, then she looks away, rummaging through a basket of scarfs and feather boas, even though I can tell she doesn’t think she’ll find what she is looking for in there. I get it. I make people uncomfortable, or I make them nervous. Like, seeing me reminds them of something they don’t want to be reminded of.
“I mean, can I help?” I say quickly. “Maybe if I knew what you were looking for?”
“Well, isn’t that the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question?”
“Huh?”
“The old game show?”
I shake my head.
“Well, never mind, let me just think here a minute….I know it was a…” Thea reaches her hands up in pantomime, as if something were there. Big hair? A towel? As if she is putting something on her head.
“A hat?” I try.
“Yes, that’s it. Lukas wanted to put the note in the hat, just for one day, so of course I told him he could. But it had to be this one particular hat, he said. It couldn’t be any other one.” She’s moving around the store again. “Please don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s here. I didn’t sell it. Not so many takers, with all those huge peacock feathers.”
Lukas, you didn’t?
“A hat with feathers?”
“Yes, a purple pillbox with peacock feathers and faux pearls,” Thea says, and she turns her attention right to me. “Why, do you see it?”
I swear, if I could feel laughter molecules in the air, they’d be speeding up like water heating in a pot, bubbling to the surface, popping right in front of my face. I ask very slowly, very carefully, “So we’re looking for a purple hat with…” I can’t bring myself to say it. “Feathers?”
Lukas always knew what would make me laugh, the kind of laugh that gets you in trouble, the kind of laughing when you aren’t supposed to be laughing. The kind you can’t stop. The more you want to, the less you can.
Only that’s all gone now.
But then she goes and says it again.
“It’s purple felt, with three beautiful”—Thea draws her fingers back, along the side of her head, demonstrating how long they were—“antique peacock feathers.”
And it’s suddenly all in front of me: Lukas, Dana Arlington, Mr. McKenna. Dana’s smug face, Lukas’s sideways glance in my direction. And, oh my God, I nearly peed in my pants. I had to hold my stomach, it hurt so much from laughing, and for weeks and weeks after that, we didn’t let the joke go.
Me (giving Lukas the perfect setup as we stood in the lunch line): Hey, Lukas, you getting chicken nuggets today?
Lukas: No. Today’s special. Peafowl.
Me (trying not to laugh): Which fowl? Boy fowl or girl fowl?
Lukas: Definitely not…
Before we get any of the rest of the words out, both of us fall over laughing, with everyone around us looking at us.
And then somehow I realize I’ve been saying this all out loud. To Thea. And I’m not crying. I’m laughing.
“I can see why you two were such good friends. Same sense of humor. It’s what kept me and my hubby together these thirty-five years,” she says, and after a beat, she adds, “I’m sure it wasn’t his good looks.”
And we both crack up at that one.
“Wait, I remember.” Thea jumps up off the velvet couch as best she can in those tight overalls. “Good looks! That’s it. I remember where I put it.”
I follow her.
“I put it behind the full-length mirror, the foggy one with all the scratches and chips. Here, here it is, right back here.” She bends down and carefully reaches her hand behind a giant stand-up mirror that is leaning against the far wall.
“Can you believe Anthropologie is selling a brand-new one made to look all worn like this one for sixteen hundred dollars?”
When she stands, her knees crack loudly, but she is holding the hat, and when she reaches inside the hat, there is another note, folded neatly inside, and it has my name on top.
Just like the last one.
“Hey, Lukas?”
“Yeah, Rand?”
It’s a Sunday morning, the first summer Rand is living with us, so I’m almost ten and Justin is fourteen, and Rand and me are walking down to the marina to go fishing. Usually it’s all three of us, Justin, Rand, and me, but this morning, it’s only us two.
We left our apartment while it was practically still dark out, but we stopped for breakfast sandwiches from the deli that opens super-early, so now, as we head to the marina, the day is starting to get lit up by the sun. Even though that makes me feel cheerier, I’m still wishing Justin came along. I like it better when all three of us are together, but Justin was too tired this morning, because now that he’s in high school, Mom lets him stay out until midnight on Saturdays.
We head toward the marina, me carrying the food and a coffee can of worms, and Rand carrying the tackle box, our rods tucked up under his arm. We’ll eat, then fish, and later go up to B&B’s to get better lures, and check out the new rods and reels.
“Hey, Lukas?” Rand asks again, like I missed something.
“Yeah?” I answer again, because my brain may be busy, but I’m listening. We round the corner toward Shore Road and take the path down, gravel crunching under our feet.
“Where do fish keep their money?”
I knew it! At first I thought he was going to ask something serious, but then I figured, probably not. Probably just some dumb Rand joke. Because that’s a thing he does, tells me dumb fish jokes all the time.
Like, Question: How do shellfish get to the hospital?
Answer: They call a clambulance.
But now I’m thinking and thinking, and nothing is coming to me. I say, “I don’t know, Rand. Where do fish keep their money?”
“In a riverbank, dumbo.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” I answer, because it’s lame but also funny, and after that, I don’t talk much because Rand walks fast, with his tall, tall self and long, long legs, and his Timberland boots he always wears, with the orange PRO tags, going clump-clump-clump on the pavement. Two steps of mine to every one of his, so I have to concentrate to keep up with him.
Finally we reach the marina, and Rand sits on a bench, and I sit next to him, and we wolf down our sandwiches and throw the wrappers in the garbage, and then Rand walks to the very edge of the first boat slip and stands,
drinking his coffee, no words or jokes, just sipping and watching the cormorants lined up on the floating docks, and the boats bobbing up and down near their mooring balls.
I don’t talk, either, just get up and stand next to him, because I don’t want to disturb him. I think about stuff, too, stuff I wouldn’t say, like how I sometimes wish that Rand was my father.
I know I shouldn’t wish it. Justin gets mad at me if I do, because he doesn’t like Rand the way I do. He doesn’t hate him, not exactly, but he remembers our real dad completely and he doesn’t think Rand is good “father material.” Mostly because of how Rand lies about beers and drinking them when he’s not supposed to. And then Mom yells, and Rand yells back, and Mom cries and says it’s dangerous to us, and Rand promises he’ll stop drinking and get help.
Once, for like two whole months, he did get help, went to meetings and stuff, and everything got better for a while. Then he crashed his truck, and it turned out he didn’t tell us about how he had stopped going to the meetings, but this time he swore he wanted to fix things. He promised he’d do it for good.
“Too late,” Mom said. “Don’t come back until you’ve got a whole lot of meetings under your belt.”
But this is before that, and he’s not drinking beer at all this morning. He’s drinking coffee and telling jokes, and we’re both looking out over the water. And he sure seems like good father material when we’re doing this.
“Hey, Rand?” I finally say when he tips the blue-and-white cup back to polish off the last dregs of coffee. We grab our stuff again and start walking to the quiet end of the marina. The end down by Gooseneck Bridge.
“Yes, Lukas?”
I concentrate hard so I don’t mess it up, because I suddenly remembered this joke out of nowhere.
“What’s the best way to catch a fish?”
Rand turns to me, one eyebrow raised. He hands me a rod, and I kneel and open the can full of worms and pull one out and hold my breath while I stick the hook through its soft, squishy middle. In my head I whisper, “Sorry, worm, sorry,” then wipe my hands on my pants, and watch as a seagull swoops down, landing on the mast of the big pretty sailboat called YOLO. It squawks at us, mad and demanding, wanting a worm for itself.
