Some Kind of Happiness

by Claire Legrand

“Why do you care about them?” Jack asks me.

  “Because it’s disrespectful to leave them dirty,” I say. “People are supposed to take care of the dead.”

  No one says anything. Jack pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket—my list of favorite words—and carefully smooths out the wrinkles.

  “Is this yours?” he asks me.

  I could snatch it away from him and run, but I stay put. “Yes.”

  He reads over the list. “Sinister. Footfall. There are a lot of words here.”

  “I’ve worked hard on them. I love words.”

  Jack scratches the back of his head, messing up his hair. He disappears and comes back with our box.

  “Jack!” hisses Cole. “What are you doing, man? Come on.”

  “You can have this back,” says Jack, “but only if you clean up the gravestones.”

  I think about that. “We can’t do it today. We have to get home.”

  “Then when you come back to clean, you can have your stuff.”

  Gretchen looks ready to bite him. “Why can’t you clean them off?”

  Jack grins. “Because Cole’s scared of ghosts and doesn’t want to ‘curse our family.’ ”

  “Shut up, Jack!” Cole pushes him, his face turning red. “I just hate cleaning. It’s pointless.”

  I hold out my hand. “It’s a deal.”

  Gretchen protests, “Finley . . .”

  “Deal.” Jack shakes my hand. His fingers are gritty with dirt.

  Gretchen grumbles at me as we start across the field toward home. The Everwood wind blows against my sweaty skin, cooling me off. I have an idea and turn around. The part of the house with the roof missing looks like a jagged rib cage.

  “Jack?” I call out.

  Jack comes out onto the front porch. “Yeah?”

  “Does the house have a name?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “We should call it the Bone House.” I pause. “You know, because of the graves.”

  He nods. “Yeah. I like that.”

  “We’ll come back as soon as we can.”

  “Okay. Sorry about all this. I was bored. I wasn’t trying to be mean. It’s usually the same old stuff around here, you know?”

  “I guess.”

  “And hey, Finley?”

  “Yeah?”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t worry about your words. I’ll keep them safe.”

  I don’t say thank you. It seems strange to say thank you to someone who has stolen from you. But I think about Jack’s voice all the way home, and how he held my list in his hands like he knew it was a piece of my own heart.

  HE ORPHAN GIRL’S SLEEP TURNED restless and fitful.

  Dreams plagued her night hours and followed her into waking—dreams about the Bone House, the Wasteland, the three small graves.

  To clear her head, she took long walks through the forest, without her friends, and on these walks she saw strange shapes on the edge of her vision: Birds and bats. Long, snakelike vines. Tall, thin, faceless figures. Whenever the orphan girl turned to face these shapes, they disappeared, and all she could see were the Everwood trees, green and gray and fading.

  One day, however, the figure she saw did not fade.

  She turned, and there it was: a shadow in the shape of a man in flowing robes. The shape shimmered as if the orphan girl were viewing it through water.

  “Who are you?” the orphan girl demanded.

  “I am the wizard,” said the shadow.

  “What wizard?”

  “The only one.”

  The orphan girl took a careful step away. “Why do you look so strange?”

  “Because,” answered the wizard, “I am no longer here.”

  A tendril of fear rolled down the orphan girl’s spine. “You’re a ghost.”

  The wizard inclined his head.

  “Are you here to haunt me?” the orphan girl asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  The wizard shrugged, his shoulders rippling. “You woke me up.”

  “The graves,” the orphan girl whispered. “Are you in one of the graves?”

  “I was. Now there is only dust and bits of bone.”

  “Was the Bone House yours?”

  The wizard was quiet for a long time. Then he said quietly, “Once. Long ago.”

  “And the others? The other two graves?”

  “Wizards,” said the wizard mournfully, “always live in threes, for they are burdened with terrible secrets.”

  “What secrets?” The orphan girl tried to touch his arm, but it was like drawing her hand through icy water. “Do you know what’s happening to the Everwood? Why are the trees dying? What are those howls at night?”

  The wizard’s shadowy eyes, darker than the rest of him, were large and soft. “Only you can stop them. That is what the trees tell me. Did you know trees are very fond of ghosts? I never would have guessed that, but it appears to be so.” The wizard smiled faintly and touched the boughs of a tree. “Hello, my friend. Thank you. You look nice today too.”

  “Only I can stop who?” asked the orphan girl.

  “Beware the ancient guardians,” whispered the wizard. The clouds shifted, and in the sunlight the wizard began to fade. “They shine as white as snow, but they can be as cruel as winter.”

  Then the wizard was gone.

  The orphan girl felt a rustling in her pocket, where she kept the wrapped dagger. When she placed her hand on it, she felt a warmth. A softness.

  But when she withdrew the dagger and held it in the sunlight, it was only that—a blade, a hilt. Cold and unmoving.

  A creeping sensation crawled up her back, nestling in her hair. Someone was watching her.

  “Find me,” whispered the wizard, from nowhere and everywhere. “Find us.”

  And the orphan girl promised, “I will.”

  14

  IT IS FRIDAY, AND I am feeling calm. My cousins are staying over for the weekend, and we are making paper-bag monster masks in the dining room.

  When I lose myself, my insides become a storming sea in which it is very easy to get lost. Even something as simple as breathing feels difficult.

  But on days like today, the sea is tame, and I hardly feel heavy at all.

  (Why can’t every day be like this?)

  Grandma brings us a plate of sugar cookies. She has been baking cookies all morning for the clinic volunteers, and we get the last batch. “I’m going to take a nap. The Friends of the Library meeting last night, baking all day today. I’m completely worn out.” She touches Kennedy’s golden hair. “Kennedy, are you all right with the twins?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kennedy chirps. When Grandma kisses her cheek, Kennedy beams.

  I concentrate hard on cutting my construction paper into a spiky lion’s mane for Dex. I want to ask Grandma to kiss my cheek too, but I haven’t seen my cousins ask for kisses; perhaps they must be earned.

  A few minutes later Grandpa comes in. He stands behind Ruth and examines her mask.

  “What is that?” he asks. “A bear?”

  Ruth puts her mask over her head and growls at Grandpa, “No, it’s a . . . monster!”

  “Needs more fangs,” Grandpa suggests.

  Ruth takes off the mask and examines it. “Good idea.”

  “I’m off for my drive,” Grandpa tells Kennedy. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  I nearly jump out of my chair. This could be my chance to ask him about Dad. “Can I come?”

  Grandpa raises an eyebrow. “With me? Your boring old grandpa?”

  “I’m done with my mask.”

  “Monster? Bear?”

  I pick it up to show him. “Fox.”

  Grandpa nods. “Good choice. Come on, then.”

  Grandpa’s car smells like leather and air freshener. It’s so clean you could eat off the floor mats. I feel fancy sitting beside him in the passenger’s seat, the polished dashboard in front of
me. When he turns on the car stereo, it plays a familiar song.

  “Jimmy Reed!” I cry, pointing at the speakers.

  “You like him?”

  I look out the window. I need to calm down and act my age. “Yeah, I like him okay.”

  “He’s one of your grandma’s favorites. Your dad’s, too. That was a long time ago, though. I don’t know what he listens to now.”

  Grandpa starts down the long driveway, lined with giant trees. The music plays into silence. I swallow hard.

  “He likes classical music,” I say quietly. “He listens to it while he writes. He says it helps him think.”

  “Oh? What kind of classical music?”

  “Beethoven. Mozart. Schubert.”

  Grandpa smiles. “Do you know Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony?”

  “The Pastoral Symphony,” I answer in a rush. “Eight-letter-word for ‘about the country.’ ”

  I bite my lip. Why did I say that out loud?

  “I like crossword puzzles too,” says Grandpa. “Your dad and I used to work on them together when he was little.”

  I can no longer stay calm. “We do that!”

  “It’s a good thing to do, especially when you get older. Keeps the brain sharp.”

  I feel small and huge at the same time, like I could either shrink into a tiny, happy ball or balloon up until I burst into pieces. I sit straight and still in my seat, but my insides are a wild party.

  At the end of the driveway Grandpa changes the music to the Pastoral Symphony, and my heart jumps.

  “Where do you think your dad first realized he liked Beethoven?” Grandpa pats my hand. “I’m glad you’re here with me today, Finley.”

  I am in the car with Grandpa. We are talking about Beethoven and crossword puzzles. He is smiling at me, he is smiling at me, he is smiling at me.

  “Why do you go on drives every day?” I ask.

  Grandpa pulls onto the road. “It relaxes me. It’s nice to get out of the house every now and then, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. Where do you go?”

  “Anywhere with trees.”

  I grip my seat to keep from flying away. “You like trees?”

  “I love them. Why do you think I bought Hart House?”

  “Because of the Everwood.”

  Grandpa laughs. “I forgot you kids call it that. How’d you decide on the name? It’s really quite nice.”

  “I’m good at naming things,” I say, and soon I am telling him all about my notebook—my lists, my stories, the different Everwood creatures.

  (I do not tell him about the stories I have written since arriving here.)

  (Those are still in progress, and I get the feeling he would not be happy if he knew I’d been out to the Bone House.)

  Grandpa listens to every word. Then he says, “Oh, Finley. You’re so like your dad.”

  My heart is a pounding drum. “I am?”

  “Absolutely. He was always writing stories too, when he was little. Sometimes he’d write plays, and he and the girls would get all dressed up in the most ridiculous clothes: skirts and scarves and raincoats, whatever they could find. They’d put on these plays in the foyer—you know, where those doors open into the living room?”

  I nod, imagining it. Beethoven’s violins soar. “Did you and Grandma watch?”

  “Every single one. Your grandma made me, even the ones we’d already watched a thousand times. Your aunt Bridget always liked to do things over and over, until they got it just right. And your grandma would sit and watch each performance like it was the first one, every time. She’d clap in all the right places. She was so good about that, Finley. She always has been.”

  “Good about what?”

  “The family thing. Everyone eats dinner together. Everyone cleans house together. Everyone takes turns telling about their day, and everyone else has to listen. You know? Things like that. Not every family does that, but ours always did. And it was because of her.” Grandpa’s face is so soft that looking at it is kind of embarrassing, like I am spying on a secret. When I try to imagine Dad talking about Mom like this, I . . . can’t.

  I scratch the dry spot on my knee, over and over.

  “I wasn’t always good at being a dad,” Grandpa says, “but your grandma was always good at being a mom.”

  I think about Grandma at the park, the little boy with the crooked collar in her lap. “Was Dad messy when he was little?”

  Grandpa bursts out laughing. “Oh, goodness, yes. They all were, except for Bridget, of course. Your dad and Stick would always come in from outside with muddy shoes and scraped knees. Everything was an adventure.”

  We are quiet for a while. Grandpa turns onto a road with woods on one side and fields of crops on the other. I watch the rows of corn flash by. The stalks are still small, but by the end of summer they’ll be taller than Dad.

  “Grandpa?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When you and Dad talk on the phone, what do you say?”

  Grandpa gently taps his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Well, we talk about you a lot. Your mom. Your grandma. He tells me about his classes, and about his writing. I tell him about my golf scores and about his sisters, your cousins.”

  I flex and point my bare feet. Kennedy painted my toenails pink. “Grandpa?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  Grandpa sighs. It is a tired, heavy sound. “I do, very much.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  “Why are you just now meeting us? Why does your dad stay away?”

  I nod. My voice catches in my throat.

  “I’m going to tell you something, Finley,” Grandpa says, “and I want you to listen carefully, because it’s important.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your grandma had it hard, growing up. Nothing end-of-the-world terrible, but not much love, and not much money. Her parents were always fighting, always spending money on things they shouldn’t. Once your grandma had her own family, she decided that this time things would be different. She was going to do whatever she could to make things good for her kids, make the kind of family she always wished she’d had, and she wasn’t going to let anything get in her way.”

  I think about that while the symphony’s third movement begins. “Did Dad get in the way?”

  “She and your dad . . . they had a disagreement. And they could never settle it. They got madder and madder at each other until your dad got tired of being mad, and left. And that was that.”

  I try to imagine being so mad at Mom that I would leave her forever, but I cannot do it. “Were you mad at him too?”

  “A little,” Grandpa admits. “Mostly I wanted them to figure out a way to make peace, but . . .”

  His voice trails off. The symphony dances on happily, which seems really rude of it.

  “Grandpa?”

  “Yes, Finley?”

  “Does . . . does Grandma hate me like she hates Dad?”

  Grandpa pulls the car over and looks right at me. “She doesn’t hate your dad. She loves him, and she loves you, Finley. She loves you more than she knows how to say.”

  My eyes fill up with tears. “Then why won’t they say sorry and get over it?”

  “Sometimes things are too big for ‘sorry.’ ” Grandpa wipes my cheeks with a handkerchief embroidered with his swirly initials: WH. “But I don’t think they’ll always be that way. You being with us this summer is big, Finley. It’s tremendous. Maybe it’s a step. A baby step. That’s what life is, you know: a bunch of baby steps, one after another after another, and sometimes you fall, but you always get back up, and eventually you get where you’re going. And, hopefully, you have people beside you to help you up when you need it. That’s where family comes in.”

  I have many questions left, but they can wait. Right now I will nod and let Grandpa hug me, and I will think about how he loves Dad after all. Grandpa’s shirt is white and wrinkl
e-free; he smells like laundry and this morning’s pancakes. The sunlight makes his face look older than usual, but I like it. I imagine each wrinkle is a year, and each year was a good one.

  “Shall we keep going?” Grandpa tucks his handkerchief away. “There’s a farm stand down this way that sells the best strawberries you’ve ever tasted.”

  “Strawberries are my favorite,” I tell him.

  He squeezes my hand. “They’re your grandma’s, too.”

  As we get back onto the road, Grandpa skips the next movement in the symphony, the one where there’s a storm, and goes right to the last movement, where the sun comes back out and everything sounds like flying.

  I don’t mind.

  15

  THAT NIGHT AFTER DINNER, WE are sitting in the Tower shelling pecans when the Bailey boys show up.

  Dex sees them a split second before I do.

  “Pirates!” he yells.

  I clap my hand over his mouth. The adults absolutely cannot know the Baileys are out here.

  Gretchen leaps to her feet and raises her stick high. “Come any closer and I’ll poke your eyes out.”

  “No, you won’t.” I jump down from the Tower. “We said we’d come back when we could. What do you want?”

  Jack kneels before me. His brothers, on either side of him, do the same. “Noble orphan girl, we are here to beg your forgiveness for our thievery the other day. Indeed, it is crazy boring around here and we think it would be less boring if you were our friends and not our enemies.”

  I stare at him, trying not to laugh. He looks so serious.

  Ruth peeks out from under her monster mask, which she has not taken off all day. “What?”

  “Why are you talking like that?” Gretchen snaps. “How do you know she’s the orphan girl?”

  “We listen,” Jack says matter-of-factly. “You guys talk louder than you think.”

  “Plus, we’re excellent spies,” Cole adds.

  “We brought cookies!” Bennett announces. Cole glares at him.

  Gretchen perks up. “Cookies?”

  I try to remain uncompromising.

  (Fourteen-letter word for “I will not change my mind, no matter what!”)

  “You’re not supposed to be over here,” I say. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”