Heaven Is Paved With Oreos

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  “Wait,” I said. “I thought they broke up.”

  Curtis shrugged. “They decided to hang out a little more before he goes to college. D.J. said they don’t know where they’re going but they like where they are.”

  Did you hear that? D.J. quoted me! She said my words!!!!!!!!!! She used me like a fortune cookie!

  “Do you want to walk around?” Curtis asked.

  “What?” I said. “Oh. Yes. Sure.” We started walking.

  Curtis looked down Laura Ingalls Wilder Avenue, which had crowds and crowds of dogs and/or humans, and dozens of booths selling art and food and beer and homemade cookies for humans and/or dogs. At the end of the street was a platform where they’d had the fashion show. Now two clowns were up there with a banjo and balloons and a tambourine, playing kiddy songs for all their Littlest Bestest fans.

  Curtis studied one of the booths. “I don’t think I want to try the dog biscuits.”

  “They’re supposed to be really good,” I said, “if you’re a dog. Z said they were.”

  “She tried them?”

  “She tried the vegetarian version.”

  Curtis looked at me like he couldn’t figure out if I was joking. Then he laughed and nudged his shoulder against mine. I laughed too.

  Do you realize what we were doing? We were walking around just like a regular boy-liking girl and girl-liking boy! If you didn’t know us, you might even think we were a regular girlfriend and boyfriend! Just like the other people who were walking around in their own boy-liking and girl-liking ways. Possibly even lady(2)-liking too. Some of the boy-likers looked like Emily Enemy, but not all of them. Not most of them, actually. They were doing it their own way. Like D.J. and Brian. Curtis and I could do it too, in our own way, if we were brave enough to try.

  “Curtis?” I swallowed. “I think you’re right. I think we should give up on the Brilliant Outflanking Strategy.”

  Curtis froze for a second. He would not look at me. “There are two alternatives,” he said slowly.

  I spoke slowly too. This was not a conversation that a person (= me) should rush through. It was important. I didn’t want to make any mistakes. “I would prefer an alternative that does not involve lying. I would prefer the truth.”

  “What is the truth?” he asked. Still not looking at me.

  I took a deep breath. “I would prefer to be your boy-liker.”

  Curtis frowned like he didn’t know what I was talking about. Oh, wait—he didn’t.

  “That means I want to be your girlfriend,” I added quickly. “That’s what boy-liker means in my brain. Which is confused sometimes. But not about this.” So much for not making mistakes.

  Curtis didn’t seem to think I’d made a mistake, though. He had a huge shy grin on his face. “Okay . . . Is it okay with you?”

  “I think so . . . I’m not really sure what it means to be a boy-liker—er, a girlfriend. I don’t want to do it wrong.” I do not want to do it like Emily. I do not want to do it like Z.

  “Me neither,” said Curtis. And then he pointed, and said something I was completely not expecting: “Look! Your brother!”

  The platform was still there at the end of Laura Ingalls Wilder Avenue, but the singing clowns had left along with their banjo and balloons and tambourine. Now four guys were up on stage, moving equipment around and talking to each other in a we-know-what-we’re-doing kind of way. One guy was kind of heavy, and another guy with a long gray ponytail had a black leather vest that you could tell was his dress-up outfit, and there was a kid with huge curly black hair—that was Z’s friend Larry, Paul’s guitar teacher—and the last guy was Paul. My brother, Paul. He looked just as I-know-what-I’m-doing as the other three.

  They took their time, I have to say. I never knew that setting up could take so long. But I kept watching because it was interesting and because it was my brother, and Curtis kept watching for the same reasons, maybe, and then I noticed Mom and Dad watching too. Mom and Dad were there! Dad had his arm around Mom’s shoulders, and the two of them were looking at Paul like they could watch him all night. Like setting up was all the show they needed.

  The band started playing. It was just like Paul said it would be: some music you could dance to and other music that wasn’t really dancing but nice to listen to—the sort of stuff Z listens to—especially if it’s a sunny day in August with a lot of happy dogs. Some of the Littlest Bestest kids had stuck around in front of the stage, and they were dancing even to music that didn’t seem all that danceable.

  Z was there too. She was right in the middle of the Littlest Bestests, dancing with them and a couple of other adults who also looked like yoga ladies. Z was wearing one of her loose, floaty dresses and a ribbon in her hair. If it had been me, I would have been exceedingly embarrassed to be dancing in front of a crowd of people like that, but Z told me once that when you love musicians you get used to dancing alone, so I guess she was used to it. Also she had just taught yoga to dogs, so obviously she is comfortable doing almost anything.

  Z kept waving to her gray-ponytail friend Larry, who’d smile and wave back as they played, and she kept waving to Paul, who couldn’t decide if he should ignore her or not. So he’d grin a little and then go back to his music. That’s the thing: Paul was playing! A real guitar, not just an air one. And when the ponytail man sang, Paul sang too! It was only humming-type stuff like “Mmmmm” and “Yeah, oh yeah” but still: he was singing! On a stage! In public! On Planet Earth, not Planet Paul!

  “I didn’t know your brother could do that,” Curtis said.

  I shut my mouth, which had been hanging open like a trap door. “I didn’t either.”

  Across the way, Dad whispered something in Mom’s ear, and she laughed. He hugged her tighter. They looked happy.

  Curtis and I watched a couple of songs, and then Curtis said he was starving and wanted ice cream. He asked if I wanted any. Normally when Curtis says ice cream, I say yes! But this time I just said “hmm” because I wanted to keep watching Paul.

  “I could bring some back. What kind do you want?”

  “Surprise me,” I said. Which was a joke, because we both knew what I wanted.

  So off he went. While he was gone I watched more people joining the crowd in front of the stage, including—I am not sure I would have believed it if I did not witness it with my own two eyeballs—D.J. Schwenk and Brian. D.J. was sort of dragging her feet and laughing, but Brian was smiling and pulling her in, and you could tell D.J. wanted to dance even though she was acting like she didn’t. She was a good dancer too.

  Curtis came back with two ice cream cones that looked—I will be truthful—immensely disgusting. They looked like he had dropped them in the dirt and rolled them around and then picked them back up.

  “Oh,” I said. “Surprise.”

  Curtis looked extremely nervous. “I thought you might like it. It’s not bad . . .”

  I had to taste it. I had no choice. I tried to look positive as I took the first lick.

  Curtis was right: it wasn’t bad. Now that I had time to consider, it was not bad at all. In fact, it was exceptionally not-bad. In fact, it was amazing.

  I took as big a lick as I could without my teeth freezing. “What is this?”

  “Cookies and cream,” he said happily. “It’s vanilla ice cream plus Oreos.”

  My mouth dropped open again, which must have been disgusting with the half-eaten ice cream inside. Why had I never before tried cookies and cream? Vanilla + Oreos is the best idea ever! “This is extremely delicious.”

  Curtis smiled a huge Curtis smile. “I thought you would like it.”

  “I am completely in love with this flavor . . . Did you know that heaven is paved with Oreos?”

  Curtis laughed. “I didn’t know that. But I believe you.”

  “You should.” Then I did something I have never done before. I think my boy-likingness was kicking in. I leaned against him. It just felt right. Perhaps it is his baseball muscles or perhaps it is because
he is so tall or perhaps it is because he’s a Schwenk, but as the two of us were standing there, Curtis Schwenk felt like something extremely safe to lean on. Something supportive, in every single sense of that word.

  The guys on stage finished a song and whispered for a minute. There were more people dancing now, grownups as well as kids, although I could still see Z right in the front, and D.J. and Brian off to one side. Up on stage, Paul was shaking his head, and the ponytail man was nodding at him. Paul didn’t look like a concentrating, I-know-what-I’m-doing musician anymore. He looked like normal Paul. But right in the middle of their talking, the ponytail man turned to the microphone: “Folks, lemme introduce Paul Zorn. Paul?”

  Uh-oh, I thought. I stood up straight. Curtis stood straighter too.

  Paul took a deep breath and looked at the microphone. He gulped. “Hey. I, um . . . I . . . this next song is for my grandma. Azalea Zorn. It’s her favorite.”

  Z’s back was to me. I couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad or scared. Please, I thought, please do not lose it in front of everyone. Everyone turns sixty-four sometime. It’s just a song.

  Paul gulped again. “And, um, Z? One other thing. Larry thinks you’re one hot mama.” Then he put his head down and began to play.

  The crowd cracked up. Everyone could tell Paul isn’t the kind of kid who says things like “hot mama.” Even the people who did not know him—which = almost everyone—even they laughed.

  I didn’t laugh, though. I was far too worried about what was coming next.

  Larry the ponytail man made a face at Paul, but then he started to play too. And then the first notes came out, and Z covered her mouth.

  It was not “When I’m Sixty-Four.” It was a different song entirely.

  You know the drawing of St. Peter’s Square that Z has in her bedroom, and how she has it there because it reminds her of Rome? Well, right next to it is a picture of a buffalo skull with huge black wings behind it. It’s not actually a picture: it’s an album cover she put in a frame. It’s from a band called the Eagles, which is kind of like the Beatles but at least they spelled the animal’s name right, and Z listened to them a lot when she lived in California. She listened to them for years, and she went to a bunch of their concerts.

  Z doesn’t say much about the buffalo-skull picture—not like we talk about the drawing of St. Peter’s Square. She just says the album has a lot of memories for her. I know Z loves those songs—loves them so much that she and Paul made up their own lyrics just like they did with “When I’m Sixty-Four.” I’ve even heard Paul practicing Eagles songs this summer. But I never heard him sing, which is what he was doing at that moment. Singing in public. In front of hundreds of people, and his Eagles-fan grandmother.

  Paul wasn’t just humming, either: he was singing the words. The main words—well, the Z + Paul words, which are different from the official lyrics but even better, I think. He had his eyes shut, which at that moment just floored me, that he could play his guitar without looking—it was like he was showing off. But he wasn’t showing off. He was just really, really focused. The two other guitarists joined in, their voices knitting in with his, the drums pulling it together.

  This is what Paul sang:

  As I sit in the dark watching dawn come,

  As the shadows all lighten in hue,

  I remember someone who adored me

  Could it be you?

  The song was slow and sad, and Paul’s voice was high and sweet . . . He sounded like he’d been born to sing it. Like the words and music both were written just for Z.

  Some people started slow-dancing—the Littlest Bestests didn’t know what to make of it, you could tell, but the adults did. The teens. D.J. and Brian.

  Z didn’t move, though. She just stood there in the middle of the crowd with her hands over her mouth. It was good that Paul had his eyes closed, because if he’d seen her . . . How could you sing, seeing that?

  “For me, you know, life goes by,” Paul sang. The three other guys joined in: “Hope is better than a frown.”

  Gray-ponytail Larry was watching Z, I could see. Slowly he stopped playing and set his guitar down.

  “Wish Fate had treated me well,

  Wish I hadn’t been such a clown.

  Now the hope that’s left in me . . .

  brings me further down, and turned around,

  and further down some more . . .

  Gray-ponytail Larry climbed down off the stage. He held out a hand to Z. She smiled at him and took his hand. They started to dance.

  “Curtis?” I put my right hand up. I was whispering so softly that I wasn’t even sure he heard me. I was whispering to his T-shirt, not to him. Then I put my left hand up too. “Would you dance with me?”

  Only Curtis did hear, because he put his left hand against my right hand, and his right against my left, and I put my forehead against his T-shirt, and we moved together. Not dancing, really, because unlike D.J. I truly cannot dance, and Curtis never has danced once that I know of, but we were together. Together in a boy-liking/girl-liking kind of way. The way that people can be, if that’s what they choose to do. We danced, and we listened to Paul sing about love and freedom and having faith even when it’s hard to believe.

  It was getting to the end of the song. “Please give me one more journey, please make it be mine, please take it to the limit of the line.” Paul’s voice got higher and higher with each word, his voice climbing above the backup singing of the huge curly-hair boy. “Take it to the limit . . . take it to the limit . . . take it to the limit of the line.”

  The song faded into quiet.

  The quiet faded into applause.

  “That was awesome,” Paul said. His voice came as a shock after all that emotion. “We’re going to take a break now, but then, you know, we’ll do more . . .”

  I kept my head against Curtis’s shirt. Around us, people were talking and laughing, and dogs were barking in the distance. It felt so good to have my forehead against his T-shirt. I could hear his heart.

  The two of us kept swaying together in our boy-liking/girl-liking kind of way. “This is nice,” I whispered.

  “I know,” Curtis whispered. “Let’s keep dancing.”

  “Let’s keep dancing,” I said. So we did.

  Acknowledgments

  Lillian Hesselgrave, alas, does not exist, although she should; luckily many other Victorians published colorful descriptions of their experiences in Rome. My favorite present-day writer is Mauro Lucentini, whose Rome is one of the joys of my life. Don’t visit the city without it. I owe a great debt to Greg Severson of Lakeside Foods in New Richmond, Wisconsin, who patiently explained the food-canning process; to Deborah Lane-Olson, who did the same with paralegals; and to Sonya Lindgren, who summarized travel baseball. Mari Caplan, my co–lady pilgrim in Rome, enthused about every site we visited and even let me read my guidebooks aloud—a better travel companion could not exist. Thanks to Mom, Dad, Nick and Liz for critiquing so thoughtfully (Liz, that whole heroine-journey business: awesome); to my editor Margaret Raymo for once again shaping a lumpy manuscript into something readable; and to my agent Jill Grinberg for coaxing this passionate wisp of an idea through to publication. Most of all, thanks to James, who is an even better listener than he is a photographer. I will never forget the dusk we shared at San Lorenzo watching starlings calligraph the sky.

  1

  SCHWENK FARM

  This whole enormous deal wouldn’t have happened, none of it, if Dad hadn’t messed up his hip moving the manure spreader. Some people laugh at that, like Brian did. The first time I said Manure Spreader he bent in half, he was laughing so hard. Which would have been hilariously funny except that it wasn’t. I tried to explain how important a manure spreader is, but it only made him laugh harder, in this really obnoxious way he has sometimes, and besides, you’re probably laughing now too. So what. I know where your milk comes from, and your hamburgers.

  I’ll always remember the day it all started because
Joe Namath was so sick. Dad names all his cows after football players. It’s pretty funny, actually, going to the 4-H fair, where they list the cows by farm and name. Right there next to “Happy Valley Buttercup” is “Schwenk Walter Payton,” because none of my grandpas or great-grandpas could ever come with up a name for our place better than boring old “Schwenk Farm.”

  Joe Namath was the only one left from the year Dad named the cows after Jets players, which I guess is kind of fitting in a way, seeing how important the real Joe Namath was and all. Our Joe was eleven years old, which is ancient for a cow, but she was such a good milker and calver we couldn’t help but keep her. These past few weeks, though, she’d really started failing, and on this morning she wasn’t even at the gate with the other cows waiting for me, she was still lying down in the pasture, and I had to help her to stand up and everything, which is pretty hard because she weighs about a ton, and she was really limping going down to the barn, and her eyes were looking all tired.

  I milked her first so she could lie down again, which she did right away. Then when milking was over I left her right where she was in the barn, and she didn’t even look like she minded. Smut couldn’t figure out what I was doing and she wouldn’t come with me to take the cows back to pasture—she just stood there in the barn, chewing on her slimy old football and waiting for me to figure out I’d forgotten one of them. Finally she came, just so she could race me back home like she always does, and block me the way Win taught her. Smut was his dog, but now that he’s not talking to Dad anymore, or to me, or ever coming home again it seems like, I guess now she’s mine.

  When I went in for breakfast Curtis was reading the sports section and eating something that looked kind of square and flat and black. Like roofing shingles. Curtis will eat anything because he’s growing so much. Once he complained about burnt scrambled eggs, but other than that he just shovels it in. Which makes me look like I’m being all picky about stuff that, trust me, is pretty gross.