The Story of Us (3 page)

It was winter. You know how I love this story. I still get happy when I tell it, even when I just tell it to myself. Wait—does this hurt you? I don’t want to hurt you more than I have. I hope it doesn’t. Tell me if it does.

So. Mom and Ben and me and Jupiter had just moved out to our Victorian house in the country from the place we’d lived with Dad in the suburbs, the Highlands. You know
that
neighborhood. What did your mom used to call it? Stepford Land? Looking down the street, it might have been one of those mirrors with the images that go on and on, because every house was the same and the same, and the same with only a slight variation. I could go to friend’s house to play and always know where the bathroom was. In that place everything was clean and new and orderly, and the closets were huge and each bathroom had two sinks. You could feel the creeping, multiplying bacteria of competition there, though. It was
baaad
. It meant you had mean boys on bikes and kiddie cell phones. Moms with manicures and Dads with BMWs. Everyone had those TVs as big as walls, and huge Costco cookies, and garages full of toys with wheels. We didn’t fit. We had a wooden swing set with a tire swing. They had
“play structures” with slides and rubber chips if you fell. Other kids thought our house was quiet because the TV was never on. They thought it was weird. We had books. Art supplies. No video games (until Dad bribe-bought them for us later, after Mom and Dad got divorced).

I don’t know what we were doing in that neighborhood. Dad liked it, I guess. He hung out with the neighbors and mowed when they mowed, all that crap, but Mom, she was never the Fourth of July block party type, right? Can you see it? Some cake that looked like the American flag done in strawberries and blueberries—ha. Ben and I, we liked the pool. We liked riding our bikes around the cul-de-sacs. But most of the time we just ran around trying to stay away from the Washelli twins, those little pervs.

No one knew the real reason we left. They thought it was all about Jon Jakes, when it had nothing to do with Jon Jakes. I remember those women standing in a circle by the school when my mother drove us there in the morning. They’d look her way (our way) and snip, snip, snip, gossip, gossip. I felt ashamed, but mad, too. Even in Mrs. Ferber’s fifth-grade class, the kids knew my parents were
getting a DIVORCE. Mrs. Ferber was extra nice to me, like I had a terminal illness. Like my childhood had a terminal illness. And then, shit. Remember the Bermuda Honda? Named after the Bermuda Triangle because bad, mysterious things always happened in it? Well, the muffler fell out of it right in front of those same women that time. Right in the school parking lot. You should have heard the noise. I was
humiliated
. I wasn’t too young to feel relief, you know, when we moved. We packed up our secrets and got out of there, is what it felt like.

Now, five miles out, and there we were in another world. Well,
you
know. You lived there your whole life. Acres between the houses, when before we could always hear Mrs. Washelli yelling at Nathan and Malcolm through our bedroom windows. Here we were, down a dirt road speckled with splashy, rain-filled potholes, out in the middle of nowhere, with neighbors that kept
goats, and horses, too. Goats!
Not an American Girl doll in sight! Minivans—gone! Just off that dirt road was our long gravel driveway, lined with five fruit trees (apple, peach, pear, plum, and cherry), and that electric gate swinging across the entrance.
THE MIGHTY MULE
, a sticker on it read, which
we thought was hilarious. What was that gate supposed to keep out, that’s what I wanted to know. We’d been told that no one should bother having cats there, because of the occasional mountain lion. Jesus! We didn’t have
those
in the suburbs.

Mom kept saying
It’s an adventure!
but she didn’t always seem so sure. Not when she was driving that U-Haul over there, with bad brakes and our whole life sliding around in the back. Not when the kitchen sink pipe broke on our first night, or when the coyotes began to howl and you realized how dark it got out there. Not when our new fridge hadn’t come from Home Depot yet and we had to keep our milk out in the creek so it would stay cold. Not when she was paying bills, for sure. Or when Dad would come pick us up, his face tight and his hand gripping those stupid bags we had to pack every other weekend, to go to that apartment of his with all our familiar furniture. Our old armoire, our dining room set—they all stood around in there looking kind of awkward, as if they were at the wrong party.

Ben and me, we were
definitely
not sure it was “an adventure.” Can I say again how dark it got
out there? Dark-dark. The suburbs were maybe milk-chocolate dark. But this was definitely semisweet dark. With the sound of restless wild animals coming down from Moon Point to find prey …
Creepy!
One night I heard a rabbit scream as a hawk found its dinner. I was so scared, I went to get Jupiter so I wouldn’t be alone, but Mom had gotten her first. We stayed up awhile together until the shivers wore off, as Ben snored away in his room. He could sleep through anything.

Were we more safe or more vulnerable now? My father could drive down that road with rage and revenge on his mind, and who would hear?

But finally maybe it
was
an adventure when that snow fell, and that huge lawn was this pure, untouched blanket of possibilities. Our own footprints on it, no one else’s. We all bundled up and ran outside. Those snowy mornings—so many clothes and the only thing sticking out was your face, and you felt the sting of cold on it. You don’t even need all those layers, but that’s part of the ritual—scarves and mittens and boots and a hat that you eventually toss off because it’s too hot and scratchy. Mom flung open the front door, and we all ran out, even Jupiter, a puppy then, snow up
to her tummy. We rolled in it, and threw snow at each other, and Ben started rolling up a snowball.

“Remember that time,” Mom said. Her cheeks were red.

“Yeah,” Ben said.

I knew too. We told the story every time it snowed. It happened at our old house. We were going to walk a snowball all the way home from the school yard, but it had gotten so big, we had to abandon it in the middle of the street.

“Look,” Ben said.

And it was you. You, a boy, Ben’s age. On a horse. You were, what, twelve? But, goddamn, you looked … grand. It’s a strange word to use for a boy, but it was true. We’d seen that horse. We’d seen two horses, actually. In the pasture across the road from us. We’d given them names—Chocolate and Vanilla. But we’d never seen a boy. And now here he was, riding Vanilla down our snow-covered road. Talk about a princely image. White steed, ha. Head of messy brown hair (I’ve always loved your hair). One hand holding those reins. We were
too far away to see your sweet eyes, but you had them, even then.

Jupiter started to howl, remember? She didn’t just
bark
, she
ow-ooo’d!
with her head up, same as a cartoon dog howling at a cartoon moon. You—we didn’t know it was you yet, but it was—smiled. You smiled, and I think you waved or something. Ben looked so glad to see a boy his age out there, and when you rode on, I think he was crushed. We kept on playing. Tried to get snow down Mom’s back. She got tired. Unwrapped her scarf. Sat down on the now slushy porch in her once-a-year snow pants.

“I’m out,” she said.

But right then, at the top of the hill across the road, here you came. With three big pieces of cardboard. In our old neighborhood they’d have had fancy snow saucers bought at Costco, but you could give a shit about fancy. You knew what worked.

“Hey,” you yelled, and it began.

If my father drove down that road with rage and revenge on his mind, who would hear? I didn’t know it then, but you would. So would your father,
Gene Tucker, with his huge shoulders and sense of right and wrong, and your mother, Danie Tucker, with her warmth and kindness and no-nonsense air. But mostly you, who had all their best traits combined. You would hear fathers or coyotes or wild animals. You would know what to do.

I liked your list, Janssen. You wrote it to cheer me up, and it did. Dogs—yeah, we love those stupid creatures (especially Jupiter), don’t we? So, thank you. Please be patient with me as I figure myself out. (See how I snuck that in?) I’m adding to your list, because I’m guessing you might need some cheering up too.

Things to Love About Dogs (Part 2):

       6. Their furry chins

       7. Eyes that seem to know important things

       8. The way they keep your secrets

       9. Velvet heads

       10. The way they can always find their way back home

Love always,

Cricket

Well, if there was actually going to be a wedding, Bluff House on Bishop Rock was a beautiful place for one. Set up on the edge of the cliff, the house was all white, with three levels of wraparound decks, and a rambling boardwalk leading to the beach. It had a green lawn with white Adirondack chairs, and it all could be something from a movie, except that it was a little beat up by wind and salt air. Dan Jax was old friends with the owners, Ted and Rebecca Rose. We stepped inside the entryway, Ben holding Jupiter under his arm. Through the doorway I could see a sliver of the living room beyond—a huge fireplace, two-story windows, a deck overlooking the sea.

“Hello?” Mom called.

“Here, I’m here!” a woman shouted, and then Rebecca Rose appeared, hurrying down the curved stairwell, nearly tripping
on a cat, who dashed out of her way. Rebecca Rose was in her early fifties, I’d guess, with a long gray braid, aging-hippie patchwork skirts, and sandaled feet. A whiff of pot smoke made it down the stairs just before she did.

Ben sniffed dramatically beside me. Caught my eye.

“I know,” I said.

“Guys …,” Mom whispered. “Stop.” Ha, she smelled it too. Jupiter was squirming her fat little sausage self under Ben’s arm. She would have loved to go after that cat, who was now weaving around Rebecca Rose’s ankles.

“Welcome, welcome. Oh, it’s a celebration. Come in, fine people.” Rebecca Rose leaned in to hug us. Pot, all right. Her hair reeked of it. Believe me, I knew the smell. I sat next to Jesse Shilo in practically every class in the ninth grade. “You must be Daisy. I hope you’re Daisy, or else I’m hugging strangers! Let’s see.” She squinched her eyes at us. “Dan and … insect name. Beetle?” Great, Ben would love that.

“This is
Ben
. And
Cricket
. Catherine, but we call her—”

“You look just alike,” she said. “All of you.” Maybe it was a pot thing. Ben and Mom were the ones that looked alike, with their gold hair and blue eyes. People always said I looked more like my father—brown hair, brown eyes. “Especially when you smile.” She waggled her finger at me.

“
She
probably looks like us too,” Mom joked, nodding toward Jupiter. Jupiter looked like herself. She was mostly black with bits of white—that small spot on her back, her tummy, the tip of her tail. There was a little brown thrown in too,
around the edges of her ears. That cat was making her crazy.

“Oh, exactly. Exactly. One of the family,” Rebecca Rose said. “Anyone hungry?”

Ben snickered.

Jupiter twisted herself free. There was a midair moment before she landed on the floor. Ben kept hold of her leash, but she was pulling and straining, making that yelp-howl of panic-excitement. The cat dashed around the corner.

“Jupiter!” Mom lunged for the dog, and her purse slid off her shoulder. Stuff fell out—a brush, a tampon. She looked a little panicked herself. “Maybe we should just—”

Rebecca Rose clapped her hands. “Your rooms! I’ll take you. You can get settled in. Explore, before your lover man gets here? I remember that Ben. Hands like a beefsteak. Mmm.”

“Dan,”
my mother corrected.

Rebecca patted her hips. “Keys. Let me find some.”

She hustled out, skirts swirling again around wide hips. “
The High Innkeeper
, scene one,” Ben said as I handed Mom her purse. “How’d you say you knew her again?”