by Emma Otheguy
“We’ll have to be like Antonio Machado,” Papi said. “We’ll make our path by walking.” He put one arm around Caro, and hummed “Caminante, no hay camino” to himself, while around them squirrels jostled through leaves and hedges, and a sprinkler watered the lawn next door, back and forth.
Caro liked the smell of fresh hay and the dusty shade of the barn, and noticed how sweaty she’d gotten only as she and the rest of her camp group stepped outside. It was the second week of camp, and the day was hot and muggy.
“So,” Yuan said, coming up beside Carolina. “First barn cleaning a success?”
“I liked it,” Caro said shyly.
“You liked it?” Alyssa said, walking backward down the path so that she faced Caro. “How is that even possible?”
“A lot of people do,” Jennifer said simply. “It’s like we’re making a home for the animals to come back to.”
Carolina shrugged, trying to appear noncommittal, for Gabriela’s sake.
Yuan pulled a rumpled piece of paper out of her pocket. “Our group is supposed to go to the greenhouse now. Come on.” She waved them forward.
“Paul never made me do anything,” Alyssa said suddenly. “That’s right,” she went on. “He told me that just because he was a farmer didn’t mean I had to like farming to be a good camper, or his friend.”
“He used to let us hang out in the camp center, remember?” Gabriela said.
“And make us those apple slices,” Jamie added. “He cut them so thin you could see the sun shine through.”
“He made those when I was a camper here too,” Yuan said with a smile.
Carolina skipped a little as she made her way down the lane. There was something glorious about Silver Meadows, about the rich scent of mud and grass all around.
“Remember his fishing vest?” Jamie asked the others.
“Oh yeah!” Gabriela said. “Lydia hated it. She thought he looked silly.”
Jennifer grinned. “But do you remember what was in the pockets?”
They reached the place where the path passed the playground, and slowed down. The younger kids were busy with tetherball and the monkey bars. Lydia was pushing Lisa, one of the little girls, on the swings.
Dani ran up to Carolina’s group, Ben close behind him. “Caro! Caro!”
Gabriela held her hand out over the playground’s wooden fence, and Dani and Ben both high-fived her. It was like they’d all known each other for years, Caro thought, high-fiving and joking like old friends.
“What were you-all talking about?” Dani climbed onto the bottom rung of the fence and held on at the top, leaning into the path.
“We were talking about Paul,” Jennifer answered. “You never met him, but this was his farm. His and Lydia’s.”
“Aw, I loved Paul!” Ben chimed in. “He used to give me erasers.”
“Erasers?” Caro asked.
Jennifer’s braid swung as she talked, tapping the fence like a pendulum. “In his fishing vest. It was full of treasures. Gum and marbles and erasers shaped like animals—he always had something. Once, I made him a tiny fairy, and he carried it in his pocket for a week,” Jennifer said proudly.
“Shhhh.” Jamie elbowed Jennifer and pointed toward Lydia, who was headed toward them. “It might make her sad.”
Abruptly, Alyssa changed the subject. “Hey,” she said as Lydia reached the playground. “How come the little kids get free time and we don’t?”
Lydia laughed.
“Please?” Jennifer begged, on Alyssa’s team for once. “I’m working on a new craft project.”
“Well…”
“I’ll spend some time outside,” Jennifer promised, following Lydia’s gaze to the open pastures, blooming with chicory and clover.
“Deal,” Lydia agreed, and Alyssa, Gabriela, and Jamie tore off to the air-conditioned camp center.
“I’ll go get my craft stuff and bring it out here,” Jennifer said.
Caro stood by herself on the path. In the sunlight, Cooke’s Hill shone a brilliant green, and Carolina found herself thinking of the abandoned cabin in the woods. She wondered if anyone had ever lived there, and if they would mind if Carolina borrowed it for her own, just for a summer. In her mind’s eye, Carolina saw elves dancing on the tile, and she saw herself, right at home. She put one foot in front of the other, her heart racing as she moved farther down the lane that cut through the pasture.
“Carolina?” Lydia called, and Caro stopped in her tracks. She turned back to the playground. Jennifer lingered halfway between the fence and the camp center, watching them.
“Yes?” Caro asked with a squeak.
“Stay on the paths, okay?” Lydia said.
Jennifer ducked under the fence and stood by Caro. “I’ll stay with her so she knows where she’s going.”
“That goes for you, too, Jennifer.” Lydia’s face meant business. “I want you girls on the trails and out of harm’s way. Okay? Okay?”
“Okay.” Jennifer and Carolina nodded, and Lydia returned to the swings, satisfied.
“We’ll have to wait until we get to my house tomorrow,” Jennifer said when they were alone. “Lydia’s got her eye on us today.”
* * *
—
When Tuesday rolled around, Carolina was nearly bursting with excitement. She was going to meet a painter, and she was going to see the cabin, her off-the-trail and out-of-bounds beloved cabin.
Jennifer’s dad picked them up after camp in his truck. “Hi, Jenn!” he said from the driver’s seat. “Hop on back!”
Carolina followed Jennifer into the fold-down seats. Her knees bumped the back of the front seat, and she was glad she wasn’t any taller. She peered around at Jennifer’s dad as he pulled out of the Silver Meadows parking lot and turned onto the main road. His gray hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and Carolina noticed paint splatters on the thighs of his jeans.
“Nice to meet you,” Jennifer’s dad said to her. “I’m Gavin.”
“Hi, Gavin,” Carolina said shyly. She leaned back and hugged her knees. She was in a truck with an artist, a real artist.
They were on the main road for only a moment before they turned again, onto a narrow dirt road so closely surrounded by trees that even the sky looked green. Carolina wondered if this was what Uncle Porter and Tía Cuca’s road had been like, before it had been paved over and lined with new houses.
When they pulled into the driveway, Jennifer unbuckled her seat belt and raced to her front door, but Carolina lingered. Jennifer’s house was the only one for as far as Carolina could see. The lawn had a vegetable garden, with leafy tomato vines crawling up a trellis, and timothy grass rustled noisily beyond the garden.
Then there were the sculptures. Everywhere were twisting sculptures of mosaic glass and old, colorful bottles. Jennifer’s front yard was a hodgepodge of grass growing wild, cheerful vegetables, and sparkling artwork.
“Hurry up!” Jennifer motioned for Carolina to come in. “We’ve got a lot to do!”
Gavin disappeared into his studio at the back of the house as soon as they got there, and Jennifer led Carolina up to her room.
“That’s the great thing about my dad,” Jennifer explained. “If I need help with a project he’s always right here at home, but he doesn’t bother me if I don’t need anything. My mom on the other hand…” Jennifer grimaced.
“I know what you mean.” Carolina savored the uneven wooden staircase. Each step was wide, and the wood undulated in the middle, where a hundred years of feet had stepped. Jennifer’s house breathed; the air in here was the same air from outside, cool but not cold. The house smelled like fresh soil, and Carolina breathed it in deep.
Jennifer flung open the door to her room. “Ta-da!”
It was like its own little studio, taken up mostly by a folding table piled
with baskets of colorful wool roving, jars of acorn caps, and scraps of fabric.
“Is this where you do your art?” Carolina stared hungrily at Jennifer’s table, which almost groaned under the weight of all the art supplies.
“Yeah! Ever made anything from felt? I could teach you.”
“Not from felt.” Carolina cleared her throat, which was suddenly scratchy. “But I paint. I—I mean,” she stammered, “draw. I like both. But right now I draw.”
Her face burned, but Jennifer took everything in stride. “Do you have a sketchbook? Did you bring it?”
Carolina patted her backpack silently.
“Show me when we go to the cabin. I have some stuff I want to bring too.” Jennifer pulled a long plastic storage container from under her bed.
Carolina’s jaw dropped. Dozens of small felt statues stared up at her. “Did you make all those?”
“Of course I did, who else would have made them?” Jennifer reached in and pulled out one of the tiny dolls, with its acorn cap and floral skirt. “At first it was really hard for me to make the little skirts; I used to use glue, but now I can sew them and they look more real, don’t you think?”
Carolina marveled at the little doll. “Why are they all in here? Why don’t you take them out?”
Jennifer ran her tongue over her braces. After a while, she said, “I could. I used to have them all over the house. I liked putting them in all the nooks and crannies—this house is full of good hiding spots. But now that I’m starting middle school…”
“What does middle school have to do with it?”
“My mom says I’m too old for dolls. I tried telling her that they’re not dolls, they’re elves, but that made her even more worried. She told me to stop leaving them all over the place.”
“Wow.” Carolina ran her fingernail over the ridged fabric of her backpack strap. “Sometimes my mom thinks I’m too old for drawing, and for talking about fairies. She thinks I need to socialize more, like with Gabriela and her friends.”
“And talk about Chiquifancy all day?” Jennifer wrinkled her nose. “No thank you.” Carefully, Jennifer stacked several of the elves into her camp bag. She hoisted the bag up on her knee and peered inside. “I’ve got everything. Let’s go.”
Carolina followed Jennifer back down the stairs, to her dad’s sunlit studio. Jennifer threw her arms around his neck. “Daddy, can Carolina and I go outside?”
Carolina noticed that Gavin had a folding table just like Jennifer’s, piled with coffee cans and yogurt containers full of brushes, pens, and paints. It smelled like Señora Rivón’s studio. Carolina scanned the shelves, ogling the bottles and bottles of paint. Several canvases leaned against the wall, many of them wrapped in brown paper. One was face out, unwrapped. Carolina moved closer to it.
The painting showed the sea, aquamarine and sparkling. Brushstrokes swirled on the canvas. It moved with a rhythm and a beauty that was familiar even as it was different. Carolina didn’t know if Gavin had ever even been to Puerto Rico, and yet she was certain that this sea was the Caribbean. It was the sea of her parents and grandparents and Carolina herself, of Cuba and Puerto Rico. What brush could create this sweeping sensation? With every fiber of her being, Carolina wanted to be like Gavin.
He tugged on Jennifer’s braid playfully. “Just stay on the trail, okay?”
As if on cue, Carolina started coughing, unable to stop herself. Jennifer elbowed her. “Deal,” she told her dad, and dragged Carolina toward the back door.
“What are you doing, trying to give us away?” Jennifer complained as soon as they were out of earshot.
Carolina sputtered. “I’ve just— I don’t think I’ve ever— Well, I just feel bad. We lied to your dad.”
Jennifer shrugged. “I like exploring the woods. Besides, I want to see the cabin.”
Carolina chewed on her nail as they left Jennifer’s house. There was a path leading into the woods just feet away from the back door, and Jennifer led the way. Carolina took her hand out of her mouth and stuck it in her pocket. Mami hated it when she bit her nails; she said it was rude. Carolina looked over her shoulder.
“Relax!” Jennifer took a half-eaten granola bar out of her bag and offered Carolina a bite. “They’ll never know we weren’t three feet away from the house the whole time.”
Carolina took the granola bar, and they munched and walked until they came to the spot where the trail ended, and all around were trees.
Jennifer stopped abruptly. “This is as far as I usually come.”
Carolina turned in place. “You mean the trail just ends?”
“Yep, this is it. You remember which direction the cabin is, right?”
“I guess so.” Carolina examined the trees just beyond the cleared path. “Not exactly El Yunque,” she muttered under her breath.
“What’s that?
Carolina shook her head. “It’s a rainforest in Puerto Rico. Where I’m from.”
“Neat.” Jennifer opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something else, then closed it.
“We keep hiking up, I guess?”
Jennifer twisted her backpack around to the front. “Luckily I came prepared.” She pulled a roll of ribbon and a small pair of scissors from her bag, and tied a ribbon to the nearest branch. “We have to mark our turns, otherwise we could be lost up there forever.”
“Like Hansel and Gretel.”
“Only smarter.” Jennifer tapped her forehead to show her intelligence. “Ribbons don’t get eaten by birds.”
They walked through the woods, tying ribbons every few feet. They reached a place where the slope of the hill was gentle, and climbed more quickly, but still there was no sign of the cabin. Carolina was giving up hope, convinced she would never see it again. Then the tinkling of the chimes filled her ears, and she tore off toward the sound.
“Slow down, Carolina! You’re going to trip!”
Carolina hurried. “Come on! If we lose the track now we might never find it.”
“Yeah, but there are living things in this forest,” Jennifer hissed. “You’re probably frightening them away by crashing around so much.”
Carolina slowed down. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
Jennifer caught up with her. “Not really. Just walk a little slower. I’ve never been up this far before. It feels…weird, to make so much noise.”
They crept the rest of the way. Somewhere a branch cracked, and somewhere a bird sang, and they plunged forward until they were standing in front of the green pond, looking at the house and its burnt-orange tile porch.
Jennifer stood very straight. For once, her braid ran down the center of her back, not swinging or moving at all. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
Carolina hugged her elbows. “Do you—do you like it?”
“It’s perfect,” Jennifer whispered. “Can we go inside?”
Like she was welcoming Jennifer into her own house, Carolina stepped over the tiles and pushed open the door. It was just as she’d left it. The blue tarp was still in its window, the floor still showed impressions in the dust where her feet had walked.
Jennifer spun slowly in place. “What is this place? This house must have been someone’s, at some point.” She went back to the door and stood in the entry. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. It’s practically in my backyard.”
“It’s so small that it gets hidden by the trees.”
“Do you think someone ever lived here?” Jennifer went to the empty fireplace. “I mean, it’s all one room, but it has a fireplace. Someone could have stayed here.”
“I don’t know.” Carolina didn’t like to think about that; she already thought of this house as belonging to her—and to the elderly woman she’d imagined.
Carolina squatted in front of the empty fireplace. “I thought from the first time I came here t
hat it was the perfect place for elves. I didn’t know you had made those elf dolls.”
Jennifer’s eyes sparkled. She took an elf out of her pocket, a green-clad wool figure with an acorn cap as his hat, and placed him in the center of the fireplace. She lifted one of his wire arms, as if he were waving hello.
“Hello,” Carolina said, waving back. “Hola.”
They lay on the floor after that and listened to the sounds of the house: the hoot of a bird, the swish, swish of the trees that surrounded them. Carolina wondered if Jennifer was collecting inspiration. She closed her eyes and let herself sink down into a memory that hit her as the chimes jingled outside: of waking up in her old bedroom, with the swoop of the overhead fan. She imagined the cool sweep, then the still hotness, pausing, then coming again. She thought of humidity, seeping into her before she’d even awoken. Qué descansada vida, she thought. What a peaceful life.
“Carolina?”
“Hmmm?”
“Are there elves in Puerto Rico?”
Carolina rolled onto her side and propped herself up with her elbow. “They’re called duendes. I had a book about them, when I was little.”
“Good.”
A solitary drop of rain hit the roof of the house. It was a lovely sound. Carolina liked sitting here quietly, bathed in the bluish green light that filtered in through the tarp on the window. More drops of rain fell, rhythmic and soft. It wasn’t like the great downpours of home, and it wasn’t monotonous, like all-day rain. It was just-right rain.
Carolina dragged her backpack toward her and pulled out her sketchbook. She flipped to her clouds and slid the sketchbook toward Jennifer. “I drew these for you.”
Jennifer sat up and examined the clouds. “These are great, Carolina. Are you going to paint them?”
Carolina took the book back and flipped through her drawings. “I don’t think so. At home I had oil painting classes, but I don’t think I’m going to have them here.” Then she added, “Not until my parents find new jobs, at least.”
Jennifer pulled a length of bendable wire from her backpack and started shaping it into a stick figure. “My dad gives private classes sometimes.” She shook out the contents of her backpack and rummaged through the tufts of wool roving and scraps of fabric for some brown wool, which she padded onto her figure’s legs.