“Does the girl know?” he asked, his voice hesitant to address me so informally.
But formality at this point seemed ridiculous. He was a friend now, at least when the Harringtons weren’t watching.
“Not yet. I want to keep it that way.”
“Right, right. Well, let me know when you think it’s safe. I’ll fetch her for you.”
I smiled.
“She’s a gem, isn’t she,” he said. “Our Bella?”
“The best.”
He turned to go.
“Avery?” I said. He turned in the hallway. “Thank you.”
“No problem, Miss.”
I swallowed hard and then corrected him. “Garnet.”
He paused, then looked right and left. The hall was empty. His eyes came up to meet mine and he nodded once. Then he said, in a low voice, “Right, Garnet.”
I closed the door slowly and then leaned back on it. After a moment of pouting I went back to my room and set myself up at the writing desk, vowing to stay occupied for a few days or maybe even a week. I’d catch up on my reading, I decided, and my correspondence. There was so much trouble going on at home and I’d hardly thought to worry myself with any of it since meeting Isabella. Now it rushed back to me and I felt compelled to send reassuring and distracting letters to my parents, to Aunt Rachel, to Alice, to Teddy. I started with my parents, composing for them a happy letter about the lake and the weather and my harmless little job and the progress of my needlepoint. It seemed like fiction. Like writing about another life. Another girl.
I’d just have to pretend to be that other girl for a while, until Hannah stopped looking at me with questions in her eyes every time I set foot outside the hotel. And even though that other girl was the girl I’d been for years, being her now was like acting a part in a play.
Actually, I thought, it was always like acting a part in a play. I just didn’t realize it.
Red-Tailed Hawk
(Buteo jamaicensis)
During that long week of self-imposed estrangement from Isabella, the hat shop was my refuge. Oddly, the fussy little store with its mother-hen proprietor and its constant stream of feminine customers liberated me from what I’d always thought of as the woman’s world. There, I was free from the confinement of “home,” free from idle hours and dull company and mundane work. My hands were kept busy unpacking boxes and arranging displays and handling money; my mind was always occupied helping customers and making change and tallying receipts; my quiet nature was stretched by the constant interactions with strangers and as I learned to navigate the unique relationship between employee and boss.
The job served as a distraction from so many things—the troubles I heard about in letters from home (and the progress that I didn’t dare believe in), the difficulties of living with the Harringtons, the knowledge that my time with Isabella was limited and already slipping away, and the decisions (especially the answer to an important question) I would have to make once I arrived home at the end of the summer, a mere six weeks away. But the job was much more than a distraction, too. The work filled me up with a sense of competence, gave me a taste of precious independence. I loved it.
Finally, as Friday rolled around again and a full week had passed since I’d seen Isabella, I darted out of work at noon and rushed down to the docks. The lake sparkled in the full summer sunlight, wavelets dancing, inviting me on the day’s long-awaited adventure. And there was Isabella, sitting on the second dock just like we’d planned through a series of secret notes, dangling her bare feet in the water. She smiled up at me as I approached and it was marvelously clear—she’d missed me as much as I’d missed her.
Maybe she had longed for a companion as much as I had—come to think of it, she’d never mentioned other friends besides Avery. Was it possible that this beautiful, talented, outgoing girl was actually lonely? Or, could it be true that she felt the same tug beneath her ribs when I was near her that I felt when she was near me? Her longings were a mystery to me. I could hardly get a handle on my own.
“You know, I’ve never stolen anything before,” I said as I joined her on the dock, still nervous about what we’d planned to do. “Is this it?” I eyed the little dinghy tied beside her. It didn’t seem like much. She’d assured me that the owner had a new speedboat and didn’t care a bit for this old piece of tin. He’d never notice it was gone, she had promised me that.
“Yeah, this is it. Isn’t she perfect?” Isabella said, her eyes shining, reflecting the gleaming water.
“I guess,” I said.
“Get in.” She tossed her satchel, our picnic, into the bottom of the boat and climbed in after it.
I hesitated.
She laughed and held a hand out to me. I tentatively reached one foot out over the edge of the dock as I grasped her soft hand. I closed my eyes and leapt into the boat. It rocked beneath me and in a quick move Isabella guided me onto a bench. She’d obviously done this before. I wished then that I’d been raised in the country, but I didn’t for a moment voice my jealousy to the girl who’d grown up with too many siblings in a too-small house with too little money. I watched her unwind the rope from the dock with ease and toss it into the bottom of the boat. Then she sat down herself and grabbed the oars.
“How can you possibly have such soft hands?” I asked. She looked so feminine and yet she could fish and row and carry on like a man.
“I have to grease them up at night and sleep with gloves on. Disgusting, isn’t it?”
“The best of both worlds,” I countered, as she bent to work.
I’d been in boats before. A girl can’t grow up in Minnesota without spending at least some time on the water. But I’d never been in one like this—a rusty tin can of a boat, so low on the water that there was nothing but a sheet of metal between my feet and the lake.
As we pushed off from the dock the dinghy swayed gently on the waves and then surged forward as Isabella pulled on the oars. She was stronger than she looked. I held onto the ridges on either side of the boat with white-knuckled hands at first, but my grip relaxed as I got used to the rhythmic rock and surge of the little craft.
Isabella smiled at me as she pulled the oars against the weight of the water. “Turn around,” she said. Then she must have seen my grip tighten again because she added, “Just swing one leg over the seat at a time. Keep your weight low and we’ll be fine. This old girl is sturdier than she seems.”
I moved slowly, crouching down low in the boat. I swung one leg over the bench and then the other, my white skirt rubbing against the dusty metal. What was I thinking wearing white today? I thought, irritated with having decided to dress to allay Hannah’s suspicions instead of dressing practically to suit the activity of the day. I’d stayed away from the library all week so that I could plausibly pretend to be spending the day there during this trip with Isabella. I couldn’t think of any other excuse, so I’d hoped the old one would still work if I dressed the part. Hannah just shrugged when I told her and went back to her knitting; my plan to calm her suspicions by waiting awhile to sneak out again seemed to have worked. And thank heavens for that. If she were to guess, if she were to tell, I’d never have another adventure again. I’d be packed up and sent home, and this little flame of excitement that was suddenly lighting up my whole life would be snuffed out faster than a turn of the Ferris wheel.
Shaking the worry off, I settled myself in the exact center of the bench, facing front. Then I brought my eyes up from the rocking boat and looked out over the glittering water. I caught my breath at the glorious sight. My hat blew off my head and its ribbon caught it around my neck. My hair danced in the wind, leaping from my head and twirling in the air. The breeze was much stronger here, away from the shore.
There was nothing between me and this perfect panorama. I had always had flying dreams, and the carousel had come close to realizing them, but this—this was amazing. I squinted against the brightness of the reflected sun that bounced and played on the waves. And that sme
ll, like the whole world was alive beneath the surface of this water, and calling to me to come back to the depths. I reached over the side and trailed my fingers in the cool water. Then I touched my wet fingertips to my forehead, where the skin was warm from the sun.
A red-tailed hawk circled high in the air, soaring effortlessly. I watched it, and for once I felt like I understood the easy dip and glide of hollow bones in flight. A memory surged back on me of being a little girl jumping off the kitchen step stool and flapping my arms against the air, trying to teach myself to fly. Sometimes I could swear I hovered a moment in midair, but I’d always ended up crashing to the ground. Daddy would laugh at me, his warm rumbling laugh, and say Fly, Gigi, fly! Then when I fell, he would dust off my knees and help me back up onto the stool. I was way too old for that kind of game now, but I never stopped wishing that someday I might feel that kind of lightness.
I pulled out paper and did my best to snip the hawk’s gliding silhouette despite the motion of the boat. It was imperfect, but it would be enough to remind me of this day, when Isabella took me flying for the second time, without even meaning to.
We didn’t speak during the row to Big Island. We were too busy feeling the sun on our skin and listening to the waves lap against the boat and watching the green blotch of land come nearer and nearer.
“Here we are,” she said as we pulled alongside the island’s shore. She leapt over the side of the boat and splashed into the shallows, dragging the dinghy up toward the land. “You might want to take off your shoes.”
I unlaced my shoes and pulled off my stockings, lining them up under the bench seat and laying my hat on top. The air felt cool against my bare feet and calves. I bunched my skirt up in one fist and reached the other hand out to Isabella. The water chilled my feet and felt slippery against my ankles; my toes wriggled into the rough sand. Minnows skittered away from the intrusion.
Isabella squeezed my hand and then let it go so she could drag the little boat all the way up onto the sandy beach. Then she turned back to me where I stood in six inches of water, trying to be still enough to coax the minnows back.
“Come on,” she said, laughing at the image of me courting the tiny fish. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Downy Woodpecker
(Picoides pubescens)
“You certainly know your way around,” I told Isabella as we set off past the strip of sand, through a little clearing, and into the woods. “How long have you lived in Excelsior?”
“This is my second summer here. They were hiring performers last spring when the park first opened—I jumped at the chance to get out of St. Paul. Avery showed me around some, and I tromped around with the other new park workers. Mostly I’ve just explored a lot on my own. Last winter stretched on forever—the off-season is so dead out here that I had to wait tables in a tearoom for a while to get by—and when spring came this year I was desperate to get outside. I’ve been all over! I came out to Big Island earlier this week and found something I knew you had to see.”
As we picked our way through the woods, every rock and twig jabbed into my too-soft feet, but I bit my lip and vowed not to complain and not to ask what kind of snakes lived in these woods. My dress caught on bushes and mosquitoes bit at my ankles, and part of me minded. It was habit, being concerned about those things. But another part of me, a deeper part, rejoiced in the dirt between my toes and the leaves in my hair. Before I could stop myself, I wished Daddy were here with me—the old Daddy who had always wished for a son but made do with a little girl instead.
“Where are we going?” I asked, stopping that train of thought before it could leave the station.
“Just follow me. It’s a surprise.”
We picked our way through the brush and at last came out in a large overgrown clearing littered with heaps of rusting metal and rotting wood. The place had a mournful feel about it, like a graveyard.
“What is this place?”
“The ruins of the old amusement park, the Big Island park that ran back when the huge steamboats ferried tourists around the lake. Not much left now.” She looked out over the piles of scrap lumber and bent nails.
“Is this the surprise?”
“No, no,” she said. “Almost there. Watch where you step.”
At the edge of the rubbish piles she turned, stopped me, and put a hand over my eyes.
“Do you hear that?” she said. A dull pik-pik sound came from someplace overhead.
“A woodpecker?”
She moved her hand and pointed to a nearby elm tree. “Two,” she said, pointing first at the little black-and-white flecked body that clung to the bark of the tree, and then at the nearly identical bird poking its head out of a hole farther up. The male’s short bill rapped against the wood in search of bugs while his mate gazed down at him. “What kind are they?” Isabella asked.
“Downy woodpeckers. See the white patch on the back, and the red spot on the male’s nape? They’re too small to be hairy woodpeckers.”
“Wow,” Isabella said. “I’ve seen that kind before and I never knew what to call them.”
She looked over at me, impressed, and I gave her a little shrug and a smile. I couldn’t fish or row or dance, but it was nice to be the expert sometimes.
“They’re a mated couple,” I went on. “I’ll bet they hatched four or five eggs in that hole earlier in the season. The little ones have probably flown off already, but the pair is still together.”
“Do you like it?” she asked. “Your surprise?”
“They’re beautiful.”
But as I watched the pair of birds go about their domestic routine, little holes opened up in my chest, like the woodpeckers were drumming their beaks into my heart. What was happening? I’d been so looking forward to this day trip, so ready to enjoy some time with Isabella. So why did I feel like I was breaking into pieces just as we reached our destination?
“Aren’t you going to cut out a silhouette?”
“No,” I said, my voice choked. For once, I didn’t feel like it. After a moment my heart was so full of holes I had to turn away. I took a few shaky steps away from the birds, away from the elm, away from Isabella. Then I stopped, steadying myself on a piece of roller coaster track, dizzy as I’d been after stepping out of the twisting tunnel on my first visit to the amusement park. I gazed out over the rubble of this old park and fought the tears down. It looked as though the whole world was in ruins. Somehow it had all fallen down around me while I was busy pretending and forgetting—lying and stealing and sneaking around.
My mind spun.
What was I doing here hiding in the woods with this smoking-drinking-dancing girl, watching a pair of happily mated birds while my family fell apart at home and my hope chest waited, half full and neglected. Maybe Isabella could run away from the people she cared about in order to live an unpredictable life without the solid safety of home—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.
I shuddered with that thought, and tears overwhelmed me.
Then the idea struck me—I needed to write to Teddy, have him come for a visit, urge him to go ahead and ask me that important question. I couldn’t wait six more weeks. It was the sixeenth of July and I’d gotten in enough trouble in the month since I’d arrived in Excelsior. Teddy needed to come. He needed to settle it, before I got carried away wishing for things that could never happen. I would write him as soon as I got back to the hotel. I had to.
I had to.
“What’s wrong?” Isabella asked, approaching me slowly from the edge of the woods as though I was a wild animal she didn’t want to frighten away. “Should I take you back?”
“Yes.” Teddy. The hotel. Teddy. Yes. But then I faltered, my resolve vanishing as quickly as it had come. “No . . . I don’t know.”
The tears came faster.
Isabella laid a hand on my shoulder, and without another thought I threw myself into her arms. She held me a minute in silence and then pulled back to look at me, concern etched into cr
eases on her forehead. Tears streaked my face and the world looked bright and blurry. But her face was clear. And close.
Isabella stood for everything uncertain and unstable and risky, and yet as my mind threatened to reel back in frantic circles, I found stillness in her dark eyes. I held onto that stillness for dear life.
Just then a spatter of rain tickled my face, cooler than my tears. Isabella let go of me and held up her bare arms to feel the drops. She looked off to the west where dark clouds gathered. “Oh, no. There’s a storm coming.”
White-Breasted Nuthatch
(Sitta carolinensis)
“I wonder if we have time to get back before it starts . . .”
She didn’t wonder for long. As we turned to walk back to the boat, a downpour hit, drenching us instantly. My dress clung to my skin and my hair hung limp down my back, stringy and dripping. I didn’t care. It jolted me out of my confusion and flipped the mood like the toss of a coin, and for that I was grateful.
The storm erupted so suddenly that Isabella and I laughed as we plodded through the mud and splashed in puddles like children. Gradually, the rain washed the ache out of my chest and I almost forgot about the woodpeckers. When we reached the familiar cove, I helped Isabella turn the boat upside down and hoist one end up high onto a boulder. Once the water drained out, we climbed underneath and let the boat shelter us from the rain. We shared our picnic lunch there, even though it, along with my shoes and stockings and hat, had gotten a little soggy. The simple meal tasted delicious after our romp in the rain. The few thick slices of dark bread, the hunk of cheese, the handful of ripe strawberries, and the tiny flask full of lemonade hit the spot.
“No gin?” I asked warily, eyeing the flask.
“No gin. All out right now.”
“Where do you get it, anyway?”
“From Jimmy, in the band.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of Prohibition?”
Silhouette of a Sparrow Page 7