The Understory (33 page)

Martin took a drink, trying to push the question out of his mind, but it wouldn’t leave. Had he been Hope’s hero? While he took another drink, waiting for an answer to come, the lights suddenly flickered one last time, and then went out. For good.

Everything was black except for some moonlight coming through an open side window, so Martin crawled over to the top bureau drawer and felt around for the flashlight he’d put there when first moving in. He turned it on, bathing in the light for a minute, remembering a little girl who loved the sun. And him.

Then he thought about what Cooper had said.
We’d run around with our flash-lights, and lead everyone out of the jungle. And then we would be Rainforest Superheroes.
But that was too much to deal with, and Martin turned off the flashlight, hiding in the dark, afraid he could not fulfill any of their expectations.

So Martin sat. And sat. Without light. Without direction. Without a way out of his forest-hell. He sat for a very long time until, suddenly, he remembered.
I will be the fabulous fairy that sleeps deep inside the moonflower bud!
The words were clear and strong.
And you will release me.

Of course he would. He could do anything.

And then he knew what he needed to do. Heroes do what they promise. Heroes press on through the dark. Heroes move on.

Hope would expect nothing less.

By flashlight, Martin Baxter walked over to the understory on the wall, took the edge of the brush, and changed the tightly closed bud into an ethereal moon-flower, in full bloom. This, of course, was something he’d never seen, so he called upon his imagination to help him with proportion, vibrancy, translucence. And when he completed the thing he’d seen in his dreams, the same thing his mother had seen in hers, he let her go.

When it was done, a rare night breeze announced itself near the open window. At first it was just a wisp of a thing, but then it gained momentum, and soon it was a full-fledged gust, delivering an unidentifiable sweet smell to the shadowy room.

She could make you fall in love with the wind.

When it died down, Martin painted over the moonflower, careful to preserve the image in his memory, because nothing is ever as beautiful in real life as it is in a dream. He looked at the new white wall and imagined what he’d left behind. But he did let one thing stay. Peeking out from a small patch of blue sky was a radiant yellow-orange sun. This would shine as long as he wanted.

As he shined the light on the spot where the moonflower used to be, he remembered seven little words that reminded him who he was.
I love you more than the moonflower.

About that, there was no question.

With flashlight in hand, he walked over to the book, still on the floor, the last page wet with melted ice-cube water. The water had washed over the fifteen words, and although they now blended in with the others on the page, they were cleansed with new meaning.
Life is a series of knowing when to let go, and when to hang on.

For the first time, he read, really
read
, his own words, and in doing so remembered someone else’s. On his mother’s deathbed, she’d said something that hadn’t made sense to Martin until that very moment. After promising that, for her, he would find the moonflower, she looked up at him and said, with a slow wink, “Ah, hell, it’s just a flower, Martin.” She then gave him a knowing look, and delivered one last sentence which, until now, had been a bit of a riddle. “Besides,” she said, trying to mask her weakness, “the moonflower doesn’t really live in the Amazon.” And then, later that same day, that woman, who had made sixteen Amazon journeys to find the elusive moonflower, died.

Martin put his drink down and focused on things lost, things found, and things that are both—things carried deep inside. He then gave his attention to the book’s final words, which he remembered were not final—two small but important words lying among an ocean of white space on the next page. They signified closure, something Martin was trying to embrace, so he concentrated on doing just that, and decided to turn the page.

Floating down the jungle’s river on my own personal lily pad reminded me of riding on an inner tube through the tame, man-made river at Wacky Waters, a water park back home. Except for the piranha. And the caiman. And the fierce and deadly creature awaiting me at the other end.

When I finally saw the kapok tree, the sun was beginning to set, and one lonely beam of light bathed the large tree in its warmth. I tried to play it cool, but it was a sight to behold. It stretched well beyond all the other trees, reaching so high, I truly couldn’t see where its top branches met the sky. And the base of it was so big, it was unhuggable. Well, maybe a giant could embrace it. Or Plastic Man.

Either way, it was magnificent, and as I hopped off my lily pad and crept up the riverbank, I was drawn toward the tree’s proud presence. I walked around the tree several times, and when I didn’t see the treasure box, I ventured forth, scouring the forest floor for magic. But there was nothing but forest things: leaves, dirt, leaf-cutter ants.

“Magic treasure box,” I sneered. “Lunatics—that’s what all these animals are,” I said to no one as I looked above me, waiting for a mischievous monkey or a brazen bird to swoop down and continue more of their conspired, misguided plot against me. But right as I was about to curse the entire jungle for sending me on this wild scavenger hunt for nonexistent magic, I tripped over something. When I landed, I looked back at what I’d stumbled over: a large, intertwined buttress root, and a strange-looking box.

I crouched down near the box, moving my hands across all four sides, and then the lid, letting the pads of my fingers sink into the smooth carved grooves of a miniature kapok tree, a smaller version of the one that towered above me. A shiver raced through me as I thought about opening the box. What treasure did the forest have in store for me? “The treasure box has what you need,” the sloth had said, but what did I need? Five servings of fruits and vegetables a day, says my teacher, but that wouldn’t be very magical. And my parents once told me I needed a reality check, but reality didn’t seem to be a very good companion for magic either.

I had my thumb on the tiny brass clasp fastening the lid to the lower half, and was just about ready to reveal my personalized treasure, when I heard a low growl coming from a nearby bush. When I looked toward the noise, it dissipated (scattered) (weakened) and re-emerged in another bush ten feet away. Whatever it was, it was everywhere.

And then it was suddenly in front of me, pacing and purring in-between words. “Bravo, you made it,” said the sleek and spotted cat as he flipped on his back and began licking his ominous (threatening) (scary) clawed paws.

Not good. Not good at all.

“Now, if you can answer three riddles, I will look elsewhere for dinner. If not . . .” And with that, he winked, then smiled, displaying his impressive teeth.

The Fierce One would not be getting a Valentine from me. “Wait!” I begged, now clutching the treasure box close to my heart, “How about random trivia. That’s really more of a strength for me—”

“Number one,” he purred, the buzzing vibration settling in my frightened belly, “what’s white and black and red all over?”

I thought maybe he should change his name from Fierce One to Lame One. “A newspaper. Challenge me, already,” I said, trying to hide my fear.

“Wrong!” he yelled, and I imagined his teeth ripping me to shreds. “An embarrassed skunk!” But then his anger quickly evolved into playful banter. “Oh, I’m just kidding. I’ll accept either answer.” His tail confidently flopped against the forest floor as he continued. “Number two. What goes around the house and in the house but never touches the house?”

Let me give you some advice: If your life ever depends on an answer to a riddle, run! “Um,” I said, stalling as nightfall crept in. “The sun!” I exclaimed.

Looking hungrier, he hummed, “Hmmm, not bad, but there is one more riddle. Number three. When one does not know what it is, then it is something. But when one knows what it is, then it is nothing. What is it?”

Sensing my impending failure, he rolled over, got back on his feet, and prowled toward me, his tail now whipping the ground. This was it. I was definitely dinner. Stupid riddles. “Is my getting eaten supposed to teach me a lesson?” I protested. “Why couldn’t I just get grounded? Or get more chores or something?”

Then he narrowed his golden eyes and lifted a paw, saying, “You.” Then he lifted another paw. “Universe,” he said in a mocking tone. He rotated the universe around the paw, my stand-in. “Lessons are not for one, but for many.”

More riddles. Have I mentioned I hate cats?

He crept closer, until finally I felt his whiskers tickle my cheek, and as he licked his teeth, he gave me one consolation prize: an answer instead of a question. “When one does not know what it is,” he said, “it is a riddle.”

O
n the morning of her day of battle, the day she’d take on the Amazon to hunt for its magic, Story awoke next to Hans—in complete blackness. Luckily, Story had used a battery-powered alarm clock as a backup, because the blackout from the night before was still going on. They needed to be at Claire and Cooper’s by 6 a.m. to make their flight, so they grabbed two flashlights, packed the car, and hurried out the door into the cool dark morning with the treasure box hiding in the trunk.

Story tried not to let it show, but as she drove down the Interstate, not one streetlight aglow, the corners of her mouth began to curl. She fought back her smile, because if Hans saw it, he might ask why she was smiling. And then she would have to try to explain how good it felt to have him next to her, how good it felt to be on her way to changing the course of a little boy’s life, and how good it felt to be successful.

When they arrived at the Payne house and pulled into the driveway, their headlights the only illumination, they could see shadows of people moving on the other side of the living room window. As the two silhouettes, carrying handheld lights, bustled around inside, excitement swelled in Story. She envisioned them both basking in a warm, bright light emanating from their future.

There was a moment of silence as Hans and Story sat in the car, listening to the quiet ticking of the motor. “Ready?” Hans said, smiling and placing his hand on her thigh.

She nodded, turned the engine off, and exited the car, gripping the heavy, silver flashlight. With the usual city sounds quieted, she could actually hear crickets chirping, and she imagined them cheering her on. She stepped over a row of large rocks lining the sidewalk, and she stepped into her new life.
Story Easton’s Life, Part Deux: Bigger, Better, and Less Fucked Up.
She vowed never to look back, and focused instead on the three front steps leading to the Paynes’ front porch.

But then she heard her cell phone ring. She’d left it sitting on her car console, and the ominous sound made her stomach clench, knotting up with each piercing ring.
Who would be calling me at 6:15 in the morning?

“Mom?” she said, breathless from running back to the car. She hadn’t talked to her mother since she’d left those messages from inside a jail cell.

“Story? It’s Angela.”

It took Story a moment for Angela’s name to register. “Angela? We’re on our way to the—”

“I know. I wanted to let you know . . . I wanted to see if . . .” Her tone made Story nervous. “You were so generous, what you paid me, I mean, and I don’t want you to get all the way there and—”

This is not happening.
“And what? What is it, Angela?”

“Just tell me you decided to get the shots.”

This is not happening.
“No, no, no, no, this is not happening.”

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing.