Some Kind of Happiness

by Claire Legrand

  What does she see when she looks at me?

  I tuck some hair behind my ear. I should have combed it better this morning. Grandma’s is in a soft, neat bun.

  “Dad says all of you listened to Ray Charles. When he was growing up.”

  Out of everything to say, I have to bring up Dad.

  Grandma’s mouth twists into a funny shape, like she has heard something strange and does not know what to make of it.

  “He said that, did he?” Grandma straightens the stack of flyers for the seventh time today. “Well, yes, we did do that.”

  I wipe my palms on my pants. It occurs to me that most people are probably not this terrified of their grandmothers.

  But do most grandmothers avoid talking about their sons at dinner?

  Do most grandmothers keep secrets, like why their granddaughter has never visited?

  Then Grandma says, “We had so many parties, in the summer especially.” She pauses; a group of children laugh, chasing one another through the parking lot. She folds her hands on the table, puts them in her lap, returns them to the table.

  “Not big parties,” she says, “not with anyone else. Just family. We would open the windows and string up lights on the patio. Your grandfather grilled burgers, and we’d turn up Ray Charles and Jimmy Reed and Bessie Smith and B. B. King. The girls would put their hair in rollers, wear face masks and old dresses from the attic. They’d do it to feel fancy. Old-fashioned Hollywood glamour.”

  Grandma smiles, her voice quiet. “There’d be fireflies in the azaleas, and we would dance and eat for hours, and the music would fill up the woods. We only went inside late, when the mosquitoes got bad. Sometimes not even then.”

  My heart is in a race with itself. I can see it so clearly that it is like I was there, years ago: Aunt Bridget, Aunt Dee, Stick. Kids like me, all of them short and small. Dad, with his floppy hair. Our photo albums at home have some pictures of him looking like that—but they are always pictures of him alone. No sisters. No parents.

  Grandma stares at her hands. “I miss him, Finley.”

  I feel like I am standing on the edge of a cliff. “You mean . . . Dad?”

  “We did what we had to do. I thought your father could understand, but . . . I never wanted him to stay away. He chose that. Not me. He decided we weren’t good enough for him. Do you understand?”

  Have her hands been shaking this whole time? Or have they just started?

  “Yes,” I whisper, although I understand nothing. What did she have to do? Why did Dad stay away? Why did he keep me away?

  Grandma turns to look at me, and I feel like I am actually seeing her now. Like what she has shown me before is a Grandma mask, and this is what lies beneath.

  I open my mouth to say one of several possible things:

  Grandma, what has happened to your face? Your makeup suddenly looks all wrong on it.

  Grandma, what did Dad do? Was it something he did?

  Grandma, tell me more about your blues parties. Tell me more about my dad when he was little.

  Tell me why we never visited. If you miss him, why don’t you ever talk to him?

  My hair falls into my eyes again, and Grandma brushes it away. What does she see when she looks at me?

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “My hair’s kind of messy.”

  “Lewis’s always was too.”

  “Excuse me.” A tired-looking man comes up to the table. Two small boys hang off his leg, and he’s giving another one a piggyback ride. “Are you Candace Hart? The backpack lady?”

  Grandma’s face fills with a silver-bright smile. “That’s me.”

  “My kids’ teacher told me about your program. Where do I sign up?”

  I watch Grandma talk to this man. She holds one of the kids on her lap while the man fills out three forms. She lets them pick out pencils and helps put the pins on their T-shirts. She shakes the man’s hand and straightens the kids’ collars. When one of them hugs her legs, she bends over and hugs him right back. While they walk away, she watches them go, and she waves when they get to the swing set.

  “Candace Hart!” A woman waves from the snack table. “I knew you’d be here! Come here, tell me what’s new!”

  “Watch the table, Finley,” Grandma instructs without looking at me. “And tie your shoe, won’t you, please?”

  As I watch Grandma head for the snack table, I wonder which is more true:

  The Grandma who knows everyone, who scrubs pans that are already clean, who runs organizations and holds messy kids with crooked collars in her lap.

  Or the Grandma with shaking hands and a tired face. The Grandma who hates the Baileys because their house is an embarrassment.

  The Grandma who misses her son.

  That night I dream of fireflies, and of Dad dancing with Grandma in the Everwood beside the old castle in the gray field. When I wake up the next morning, the dream feels thick around me, like a scratchy blanket too heavy for the summer.

  I find my notebook and start to write a new list.

  WHY MY DAD LEFT THE FAMILY

  • Because he was called away on an adventure that required him to sacrifice all personal ties.

  ■ But then he got married, so that can’t be it.

  ♦ Unless . . . am I part of some secret international plot? (Unlikely.)

  • Because they wanted him to take over Grandpa’s business with Uncle Reed, but he didn’t want to. (But why would that be a secret?)

  • Because he was different. (Like me.)

  12

  BUILDING A TREE HOUSE IS more difficult than I had anticipated, but it had to be done. No quest is complete without a base of operations.

  However, even with Grandpa’s supervision, what we end up with on Tuesday is something more like a tree . . . patio.

  Once we nail the final board into place, we all step back for inspection.

  Grandpa is the first to speak.

  “Well,” he says, scratching his chin, “now that is something.”

  Specifically, it is a platform three feet off the ground, built around a cluster of three thick trees. There is a slanted roof, and it has walls on two sides. Steps lead up to the front, with a rope ladder hanging off the back.

  It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

  “It’s ugly,” Ruth announces. “I thought it would be, you know, up high. In the trees. It’s supposed to be a watchtower.”

  “Oh, come on, Ruthie.” Kennedy adjusts the bandana tied around Ruth’s head. “This way you can go inside without asking someone for permission.”

  “You can also fall off it without breaking your neck,” Gretchen points out.

  Ruth frowns. “But it’s not high enough to see anything!”

  “I’ll tear it down, then.” Grandpa approaches the steps with his crowbar. “If you’re not going to appreciate it, that is.”

  I am happy to hear a collective gasp of horror.

  “That’s what I thought.” Grandpa turns to me. “Now, remember the ground rules: Not one inch outside the pit, like Grandma said.”

  “Yes, sir,” we all say.

  “And you won’t let the twins climb around here by themselves?”

  “No, sir.”

  Grandpa looks at each of us like he is searching for evidence of a lie. Gretchen stares back so intensely that I almost crack up. Dex picks his nose and inspects the findings.

  Satisfied, Grandpa nods. “Well, then. Go nuts. But not too nuts. And take your shoes off before you come in for dinner.”

  Gretchen asks, “What if we didn’t? What then?”

  “Apocalypse, probably.”

  Once Grandpa has packed up his tools and gone back into the house, I climb inside what we have named the Tower and hang the shoe Gretchen and I found from the ceiling by its laces. It dangles over the center of the floor like a bizarre chandelier.

  Doing this gives me a moment to think.

  Everyone else is going home after dinner, but Gretchen has talked Stick into letting
her stay at Hart House for the rest of the week.

  On the one hand, out of everyone, Gretchen is the person I know best.

  On the other hand, I have spent the past two days building a tree patio with five other people, one of whom is Grandpa, who wears button-down shirts even while building tree patios in the dirt—and I feel a bit like I am crawling inside my own skin.

  I keep thinking about what Grandma said at the park: about missing Dad, that he was the one who chose to stay away.

  What does Grandpa think about Dad? Does he miss Dad too? Dad said they talk on the phone—but about what? And how often? And what do they say when they hang up? Do they say I love you? What would those words sound like, coming out of Grandpa’s mouth?

  I want to ask him about these things, but whenever I imagine doing so, I freeze up.

  I have always been better at writing things than saying them.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I say, casually, hoping no one will follow. Just a walk, to clear my head. That is all I need.

  “Oh, me too!” Gretchen loops her arm through mine.

  I try to pull away. “Gretchen, really, it’s no big deal—”

  Then Gretchen tenses up beside me. I see him too.

  It’s that Bailey boy, the medium-sized one. He is crouched behind a stump a few yards away.

  And he is holding our stash of valuables. Gretchen’s dolphin. Kennedy’s medal.

  My list of words.

  I am seized by righteous anger.

  It was Gretchen’s idea to bring the stash out here, to christen our headquarters, even though I protested.

  How did the Bailey boy slip past all of us without anyone seeing him?

  Gretchen’s hands are in fists. “Give that back. Now.”

  The boy grins, winks, and takes off in the other direction.

  Into the Everwood. With our stuff.

  Gretchen growls an extremely forbidden word under her breath.

  I have to agree. “We can’t let him get away with this.”

  Gretchen snorts. “Oh, don’t worry. He won’t.” She yells, “Back in a sec!” over her shoulder.

  Kennedy whirls. “Wait, what—?”

  But we ignore her. We don’t stop to think about Grandma or Grandpa seeing us. We run.

  We scoot across the First Bridge, jump over ridges and weave through trees, skid down slopes of mud and leaves like surfers.

  The Bailey boy’s laughter floats back to us. Trying to catch him is like trying to catch a shadow.

  “We’re losing him!” Gretchen shouts. “Come on, Fin!”

  I have never run like this in my life. We’re practically flying, dodging tree roots and fallen logs like they’re nothing. My breathing starts to burn, and my side aches.

  Then Gretchen skids to a halt. “Oh man.”

  I catch my breath and blink hard against the sun. We have reached the Wasteland—the field with the old gray house.

  The Bailey boy jumps onto its porch and yells back at us, “Come inside . . . if you dare!”

  He laughs, slams the door, and disappears.

  “What’ll we do?” Gretchen whispers. “We can’t go in there, not with the Baileys inside!”

  A dry summer wind sweeps across the field toward the house. I have to follow it. When the Everwood speaks, only fools choose not to listen.

  “Yes, we can,” I say. “And we will. Right now.”

  13

  I START WALKING TOWARD THE house before I can change my mind.

  The Everwood may be calling me, but I am not an idiot. Going after an enemy on his home turf is a huge risk.

  “Are you crazy?” Gretchen runs after me.

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m not going in there. You’ll have to go by yourself!”

  “Fine.”

  Up close, the house looks even worse. A huge hole where the roof is missing opens up one half of the building to the sky. Dark stains cover the house like bruises. Black wooden beams stick out of collapsed walls, and the windows are either smashed or missing.

  There must have been a fire here.

  The summer wind blows past me again, and I imagine it is the heat of flames. It shouldn’t make sense to shiver when you’re hot.

  “This place gives me the creeps.” Gretchen pokes through the grass with her foot. “Look at all this trash. God, it’s like the house threw up or something. Empty bottles, clothes, toys . . . ugh!” Gretchen kicks away a one-eyed doll wearing a faded red dress. “Get away, you freaky little monster.”

  “Oh, wow, would you look at this awesome medal?” a voice calls out from inside the house.

  Gretchen and I both stare up at the second floor, where a tanned hand dangles Kennedy’s MVP medal out a window.

  “It sure is shiny,” the voice continues. A boy’s head pops out, grinning down at us. It’s the boy who brought us here, his bangs dark and wild. He slips the medal around his neck. “I think I’ll keep it! What do you think, Cole?”

  Another, older boy looks out the window. “I think you should keep that, and I’ll . . . keep this.” Cole waves around Gretchen’s stuffed dolphin, Echo, and kisses its nose. “Oh, what a cutie-wutie wittle dolphin!”

  “Stop touching him, you gross . . . toe fungus!” Gretchen shrieks.

  “Come and stop me,” Cole suggests, which makes the other boy crack up. They disappear back inside.

  “I am literally going to knock their heads off,” Gretchen growls. She finds a stick and whacks the house with it. Faded green paint flakes off and blows away. “Either that or call the cops. They are so getting arrested. Do you have your phone? Hey! Where are you going?”

  I follow the trail of garbage behind the house. The backyard is a mess: overgrown trees, grass that comes up to my waist, piles of broken bricks and rotting wood. An old, rusty pickup truck sits off to the side, weeds grown up around its tires.

  In the corner, back where the woods start up again, is a giant oak tree with curved branches that hang so low you could walk right up and sit on them.

  I crawl inside the tree’s canopy. Above me the world is green and cool. The grass here is thin; it must not get enough sunlight. I place my hand on a nearby branch. The rough bark feels familiar, like this tree and I are old friends.

  “Fin?” Gretchen barrels into the tree after me. “Do we have a plan here or what? Kennedy will flip if we don’t get back soon.”

  “Hold on a second,” I say.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  I do not know how to tell her about the hot wind whispering to me, or the fact that I think I have fallen in love with a tree.

  “Nothing’s going on—” My foot catches on a dip in the ground, and I fall.

  “Fin? You okay?”

  I do not answer her. I am staring at the small, gray shape sticking up out of the dirt in front of me. It is so covered with moss and leaves and mud that I can’t see much of it.

  Even so, I know it is a gravestone.

  There are three of them.

  “Holy . . . Are you kidding me?” Gretchen squats beside me. “Are those what I think they are?”

  She reaches out to touch the nearest one. I slap her hand away.

  “Hey! What was that for?”

  “Don’t touch them.”

  “Why not?”

  The truth is, I want very much to touch them. I want to scrub off that moss and mud and find out who they belong to. But the quiet of this place beneath the tree suddenly seems like it might be a sign. “Maybe they don’t want to be touched.”

  Gretchen inches away from the gravestones. “You mean, like . . . ghosts?”

  “Maybe.” I get up and march toward the house. “I’d like to know a little bit about them before I stick my nose into their business, is all I’m saying.”

  I creep up the back steps, making sure the wood is steady before I put my weight on it, and knock on the door. The wall beside it gapes open, but it feels wrong to step inside without asking.

  A piece of paper s
lides out from beneath the door. It says, If you want your stuff, you’ll have to steal it back.

  I shove the paper back into the house. “We’re not stealing anything. We want to talk to you. It’s important.”

  After a minute the door swings open. Three boys stand there. The medium-sized one passes a Slinky back and forth between his hands, his eyes narrowed.

  “State your business,” he says.

  “My name is Finley Hart, and this is my cousin Gretchen—”

  Gretchen nudges me. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m Jack,” says the medium-sized boy. Then he points to the oldest boy. “That’s Cole. And the little one’s Bennett.”

  Bennett waves cheerfully at us. Cole grabs his hand and stops him.

  “You’re trespassing,” Jack says.

  “You stole our stuff,” I reply.

  He shrugs. “Doesn’t give you the right to trespass.”

  “We want it back.”

  “What if we don’t give it back?”

  “Then we’ll call the cops,” Gretchen snaps.

  Bennett’s eyes go wide. “Cole!”

  “No one’s calling the cops,” Cole says. “And even if you did, they don’t care about stuff like that.”

  Jack is watching me. I stare right back at him. I am not afraid of pirates.

  “You’ll give us our stuff back,” I say. “You don’t look dishonorable.”

  In fact they do, but flattery might be our best bet in this situation.

  “Ha!” Cole grins. “Sure we do. We’re Baileys. Didn’t your grandparents warn you about us?”

  “Actually, they did,” says Gretchen.

  “Yeah? And what did they say?”

  I don’t want Gretchen to make things worse, so I interrupt. “Did you know there are gravestones under that tree in the back?”

  “Yeah,” says Jack. “Why do you care?”

  “Whose are they?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

  “Well, didn’t you ever try to look?”

  “Nah. Don’t care.”

  “Can I clean them off?”

  Gretchen tugs on my sleeve. “Fin, let’s just go.”