Other Shepards

by Adele Griffin

  Something about Louis’s presence in the kitchen makes me want to run. I imagine a panting flight out the front door, up the street to the Peacock Caffé, where I can sip an Italian soda in solitude. But running is not an option, not now.

  Again I drop to crouch over the spilled contents of my desk. Still no eraser. I stand up and fling open the drawers of my dresser, recklessly searching for a T-shirt. In the half hour that he has been in my home, I could fill my entire notebook with facts about Louis Littlebird. The problem is that this Louis is more unpredictable than his notebook entries. He cannot be closed up inside a desk and savored between classes. Just thinking about writing in my notebook conjures up an image of my sweaty handprints, damp over the pages and plastic cover, and I realize my notebook, and my invented Louis, are no good to me anymore. The real Louis will not bend in the directions I choose, or beam back the thoughts that I project like light into a mirror.

  Imaginary people are so much easier.

  Fingers tap at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s me.”

  “You can come in.”

  “Hey.” Louis stands in my room, an alien in my oasis of girlishness. His gaze skims my matching furniture, and I want to hide a dozen things—my horse posters and my Madame Alexander doll collection, to start. “Find your eraser?”

  “I’m still looking.”

  “Your sister’s like, intense about that bird. I don’t even think she noticed I left the kitchen to find you. Anyhow, I quit art for today. Come downstairs and admire my tree.”

  “Okay.”

  But instead of going downstairs, Louis ambles past me to the edge of my bed, where he sits and then stretches out on his back, lying halfway across the bedspread while his feet remain planted on the floor. I wonder if my bed will smell like Louis after he gets up. A thrilling thought. “I’m beat,” he says. “Tryouts killed me. I hope I make JV.”

  I move to the end of my bed and lean the tops of my legs against it, hugging my arms across my chest. The position looks and feels awkward. I cannot think of a word to say to him; I am just so elated and horrified that he is here in my room.

  “Got any pets?” Louis asks.

  “No. Our parents say we’re the pets,” I retell their joke lamely.

  “Not even a pigeon or a rat? A cute New York City pet?”

  “They think pets are messy.”

  “They’re right—animals can destroy a house. You have a nice place, a nice room.” Louis turns to me, yawning. His hair flops over his eyes, and I think of Shetland ponies, gypsies, rock stars. “Our house is like Noah’s ark. Besides having two dogs, an eleven-year-old cat, and a pair of guinea pigs who we hoped were both boys—but now one looks pregnant—I got two older sisters and one older brother. Then there’s me, and I share a room with Matthew, Mattie, we call him. The youngest. Five kids, total.”

  “Do you like being a big brother?”

  “Mattie’s two years younger than your sister and two times the problem.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I witnessed her in action,” Louis says, “and I never saw her bite. Which is what Mattie’s up to these days. As soon as you tell him he should get ready for bed or finish his veggies—chomp! Right in the arm. Like this.”

  Louis opens his mouth wide and grabs my hand. I watch his teeth sink into the skin of my wrist.

  “Stop.” I pull my hand away, because I like it too much. Louis grins. He opens his mouth wide and snaps at the air like a crocodile.

  “Hey, you don’t have any cavities,” I say.

  “Yeah-huh. I got two.” Louis opens his mouth and jams his finger somewhere deep in back of his mouth. “Ahh? Ah ga oo, heyaa!”

  I duck my head. “Eww, I don’t want to see—” I stop speaking when I feel Louis’s hand encircle my wrist again. “What?” I ask. I feel my mouth smiling although I do not feel smiley exactly because all my nerves are curled like electric wires inside me. “What?” I ask again as he uses his grip on me as a leverage to pull himself up from the bed, and then we are facing each other, too close to talk, too close to breathe, and Louis bends his head so there is no more height between us, and I move one way and he moves another way, and then I tip my mouth up to meet his mouth and our lips touch, almost, and I feel his breath, smelling faintly of orange juice, but warm and good.

  I give in to the sensation of Louis, and my fingers move cautiously over his shoulders, up and up to touch the warm, alive pulse of his neck. Its rhythm pushes against my fingertips like the code of a secret language.

  I lift myself onto my tiptoes, and then I feel his mouth for real this time. His arm is as thick as a branch of tree for me to lean against, and his sweatshirt smells like dust and skin and—

  “Oh, Holland, no!”

  For the second time this afternoon, I did not hear the door. Her voice is more clipped than angry, but the sound rockets me off, away, streaming away from Louis. When I recollect myself my back is pressed up hard against my dresser; its brass handles are pinching my skin, and my face is pepper red and hot, and my eyes sting at the sound of her dismay.

  Mom.

  eight

  vincent and aaron

  EVERYONE IS ASLEEP. MY watch reads one minute to one in the morning. I sit in Elizabeth’s desk chair. By the soft streetlight, I can see well enough to scratch my fingernail over the initials in Elizabeth’s desk. E. S. + W. J.

  Did W. J. ever sneak a visit to 176 Waverly? Did Mom ever catch Elizabeth kissing W. J., or any guy, in this same room and cry, “Oh, Elizabeth, no!” Did Elizabeth ever think about spending her whole allowance on a one-way bus ticket to Orlando, Florida, to get away from this house of silent disapproval?

  The entire afternoon had collapsed in ruins within a few earthquaking seconds. Mom ordered Louis out of the house immediately, saying she did not “even want to know your name, young man.” Louis had gone quietly, making the sign of a telephone receiver with one hand, the other pointing to me, then cheerfully waving good-bye as if the situation were more of a bother than a total humiliation.

  Mom immediately demanded an explanation that she had practically no interest in hearing, because every time I tried to tell her about Geneva, or Louis, or Annie, she interrupted by saying how disappointed she was in me and what a bad example I set for Geneva and what kind of school was Ambrose, anyway, if it couldn’t teach her daughter decent Christian behavior.

  Later, at dinner, she and Dad decided to ground me, the first formal punishment dealt out to me since second grade, when I ran away from home and got as far as Christopher Park. Dad had discovered me less than half an hour later, sitting on a bench and holding a lunch box packed full of clean underwear and plastic forks. I was grounded then (for a day), and I have been grounded now (starting tomorrow, Friday, all the way through to next Sunday).

  The very worst moment of the entire evening, however, occurred just a few hours ago, at bedtime, when Mom again walked into my room unannounced.

  “Good night, Holland,” she said, setting a crinkly puckered kiss on my forehead. “I hope when you stop crying, you might use this day as a learning experience.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “And I hope you think your punishment is fair and not too strict. We hate to punish, your dad and I.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  She sighed. “I also wanted to talk to you about something else,” she began. “That boy you were with. He’s an older boy.”

  “Ninth grade at Bishop Brown, same as Aaron Hill. One stupid year older than me.”

  “You don’t need to be so surly, Holland. All I mean to say is …” Mom drew a breath and tried again. “Boys like that, who look older, they’re usually wild, troublesome. They want attention. They want … things, and I’m not speaking rashly, but someone like Aaron Hill—not that it would have to be Aaron, except that you’ve known him all your life—but someone like Aaron, just might be exactly the kind of boyfriend you can grow into.” She laughed. “For lack of a better phr
ase.”

  “Mom, a guy is not like something sold at Macy’s, for you to pick out and pay for and bring home to me. Secondly, for your information, Aaron Hill is in the same grade as Louis. And you know what?” My voice was sliding up precariously high scales, but I could not stop. “Louis told me the entire ninth grade at Bishop Brown calls him Aaron the Pious as a joke because he’s so up on himself, so there!”

  “How hateful of you, Holland. What a poisonous thing to say.” Mom seemed to fold into herself as she adjusted her bathrobe belt tighter across her front. “I hope when you’re feeling more rational the two of us can sit down and have a mature conversation.” She turned and began to walk out of the room.

  “Were the buggies ever bad?” A biting hook of a question, and when she faced me again I was suddenly, vindictively glad for the ache behind her eyes. I know all the other Shepards’ now unmentionable nicknames from old letters and yearbooks and Christmas cards: John-boy, Johnnie, Dizzy, Lizbit, K. P. (for Kevin Paul). But this name, goofy and alien in my mouth, was Mom’s Ick name for all of them. “Three snug-buggies,” she had written on the back of a stray photograph showing them all wrapped in winter coats and mufflers, and once I found an old letter to Mom from Dana Hubbard with a P.S. sending “all the love in the world to your buggies.”

  “Do you enjoy hurting me, Holland?” Mom asked, words that almost paralyzed me with guilt and rage.

  “Were they?” I demanded, red-faced and stubborn, hating myself, as she walked out of my room and closed the door behind her. Because Kevin joined a fraternity, I wanted to shout, and I know enough about fraternities from kids at school whose older brothers pledged and pinned. Fraternities are all about drinking and girls, dirty jokes and broken rules. And John must have been in some trouble for doing those bird noises on the school intercom.

  Now, at one to one in the morning, the question again surfaces in my thoughts. Did the other Shepards ever disobey? Did Elizabeth only date nice boys? I never heard of a boy with the initials W. J. Then again, I never heard of Pia Kredneck. I probably never heard of a lot of things that happened here over two decades ago.

  The problem with living in a house full of angels is that each year they soar just a little bit higher, and their memories turn into brokenhearted carols sung only to praise their time on earth. Fraternity pranks and missed curfews are forgotten, inadequate boyfriends are forgotten; after eighteen years all the parents want to hear are the hymns and the peaceful rustle of distant wings, while my sister and I remain weighted by the burden of our own unhaloed heads.

  I try to picture W. J. lurking in the shadows, wearing a leather jacket and chewing a toothpick. Then I picture Louis, his white teeth pressing into the skin of my wrist, and I am swamped with delight. I know I have to see him again.

  It is like a miracle, but I am not sure who listened to my secret prayers. All day, I had been vaguely imagining escape as a bus ride to Orlando or a weekend in Cape May. Regular wishes and normal bets: After I finish this grounding, I will ask the parents to send me to soccer camp with Kathlyn. If I bring those Goodwill bags to Mr. DePass, maybe I can get enough money to take a train up to Boston, to visit Uncle Nelson. Maybe Louis could come with me.

  But I had never dared to imagine that the next day’s mail might hold those tickets. The letter’s plastic window is addressed to Geneva and me, but Geneva, who almost never gets mail, swipes the envelope from my hand.

  “Give that back,” I say, racing after her into the house. “It came to both of us.”

  “We’re going!” she yelps as she disappears into the dining room. I am right at her heels.

  Geneva is squeaking like a puppy’s chew toy as she hops around the dining room table, her hands clamped to her cheeks like those people in the Publisher’s Clearing House commercials.

  “Come on, what is that? Let me see.”

  “I knew it, I knew it. My fortune came true after all! Shows how much you know!”

  “Let me see!”

  She slides the envelope across the table. “We have to tell Annie,” she says, and heads through the swinging door into the kitchen.

  I pull out and unfold a packet of our matching itineraries, a computer printout of seat numbers and departure information, and lastly, two pairs of tickets. An expanding bubble of excitement begins to fill my stomach.

  “Hey, where is she?” Geneva calls. When I follow her into the kitchen, Geneva is staring at the wall. I follow her gaze to a blue-chalked word that reminds me of my own hyperlegible handwriting, the bobbing A and o, and the same three-fingered capital Ms that I make.

  “Who’s Moma?”

  “No, it’s MoMA. The Museum of Modern Art. Remember when Dad took us there a few years ago? To see those paintings by Van Gogh?” Geneva’s face is blank. “I can’t believe you forgot, you hated this story. He was the artist who cut off his ear. He died penniless, but today one painting is worth more money than like, … how much a grand-prize winner gets on Jeopardy. More, maybe. Go, get your jacket. We’ll take a subway if you feel up to it.”

  “His own ear? He cut off his own ear? I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Yep, that’s what you said last time.”

  She does not move. “Besides, you’re grounded.”

  I regard my sister thoughtfully. Mom’s words clatter in my ear. “You have to set a good example for your sister, Holland. Geneva looks up to you.” Then the lyrics of a new bet melt through me, a coaxing strain like a cobra charmer’s flute. If you break the rule this once, you can ground yourself an extra day at the end of the week. Take a day, give a day. Take one, give one back. Nobody will know.

  “I’ll add another grounded day to the end of the week,” I tell Geneva confidently. “Annie is asking us to come, otherwise she wouldn’t have told us where she is, so it must be important. Plus I want to show her these tickets. Now, can you manage the subway? If not, we have to pool for cab fare.”

  “I guess I can do it,” Geneva says. “The subway’s quicker, and I don’t want to miss Annie.”

  She does not make a sound during the entire six stop ride up to the museum. Her face loses all expression and color, especially when a huge crowd swells inside the car once we hit Times Square, and she is first out the door when we arrive at our stop on Fifty-third and Fifth. She mouths a string of Hail Marys but she does not peep.

  “You did it,” I say when we emerge into the swarming street.

  “Barely,” she breathes.

  “You’re just being dramatic,” I say. “You were way better than barely.”

  We use Dad’s University membership card to get into the museum for half price. Automatically, I head to the permanent collection, and I spy Annie before Geneva does. The back of her bright head and shoulders blocks a chunk of my view of Starry Night, and I wonder how long she has been standing there. People jostle around the paintings, but Annie stands still as a spike through the floor.

  “This painting makes me hungry,” she says with a sigh as soon as we are close enough to hear. “You know what I like best about it? I like how he signed his first name. It makes him seem approachable, like you could have walked down the road to his house and shared coffee with him, borrowed sugar from him, exchanged paintbrushes. ‘Trade you a stippling sponge for a camel mop.’ Easy as that.”

  “Where have you been?” Geneva gasps. “Holland got in big trouble when she invited Louis over, like you told her. She took your advice and broke the ‘no guests without permission’ rule and got caught. She’s grounded, she shouldn’t even be here. But I can, since all I was doing was painting my bird.”

  “Be quiet, Geneva.”

  “Some things are more important than rules,” Annie says. Her eyes sparkle, and she smells nice, like a freshly sharpened pencil, but her wrinkled dress and blazer hang too large over the narrow outline of her body, and one of her shoe straps has come undone. It quivers and flicks along the floor like the tongue of a snake, and it makes her look untidy and distracted. I wonder if other mus
eum patrons mistake her for a homeless person. It would explain their lack of communication with her, their refusal to make eye contact. Yet Annie seems comfortably unaware of herself and the people around her.

  “We need to put these colors in the kitchen,” she says as she turns back to the painting. “You can’t find these hues anywhere in a city landscape.”

  “In summer you can,” I say, loyal to my New York. “Especially in Central Park. But look here, Annie. Look what came in the mail today.” I remove the envelope from my jacket pocket and show her the tickets.

  “Cripes, how’d you get those?” Annie asks. “There’s some luck, a free vacation.”

  Geneva begins hopping around us in a circle. “We’re going to Saint Germaine! We’re going, we’re going, we’re going!”

  “You ordered them for us, didn’t you?” I say.

  “Holland, really. How would I get the money to send you two off to the Caribbean for a weekend?”

  “It’s a freebie!” Geneva shouts. “A freebie, period! A hooky trip.”

  “Geneva, you’re about to get smacked.” I slip the tickets back in my pocket. I can hardly bear to look at them, they delight me so much. “But it’s not free, Annie. Plane tickets don’t just show up in the mail. There’s no receipt. Maybe they aren’t even paid for. I don’t think the parents will let us go.”

  “Mmmph,” says Annie. She lifts her hand to her chin, as if thinking. I notice that her nails are brightly caked with paint.

  “So,” I say impatiently, “I guess what I’m asking is what would you do?”

  “What would I do? I wouldn’t tell a soul.” Annie smirks like the delinquent kid she probably once was. “I’d cut school Friday, cab to the airport, jump on the plane, and figure out the rest of my plan once I got to the island.” It is the most irresponsible advice I have heard from a grown-up since Uncle Nelson told me to stand on my head when I did math problems because it supplied more blood to brain neurons. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, and now I don’t know if Annie is either. Geneva’s chant of “Yes! Yes!” does not help me to think logically.