“Oh, a bunch of stuff. A crayon from the restaurant. A grave rubbing. Pool toy. Fishing bob.”
“We have tackle. I can lend you the bob, Ollie wouldn’t mind. I was just returning the truck so I have to go in and hand over the keys anyway.”
“We got it already. Thanks, though.”
“Nice tattoo.”
I touched my cheek, smiled. “So you’re talking to me. Does this mean you’re not mad anymore?”
“Not sure yet. My mom said it sounded like I was kind of a jerk to you.”
So at some point since the party in June he’d talked to her about me. Interesting. “I like your mom.”
Another team was running down East Shoreline, hooting and belting, “We are the champions!” Beth Cohen wore a child’s pink life jacket.
“I should catch up,” I said, not moving.
He tucked a lock of black hair behind his ear. “So,” he said.
“So.”
We both glanced up at the sound of scraping wood. Ollie was opening the window, trying to see what the ruckus was. Any second and my dad would be at his side.
Far up the road, Casey’s voice floated to me. “Come on, Laur!”
“Gotta go,” I said. “I can’t let my team down.”
“Hope you win.”
I was already grinning when he called after me, “Hey, High School. No cheating!”
21
Honor System
Last Saturday of August 1997
Summer before junior year
Next weekend was Labor Day and everyone would be gone, so tonight’s hunt would be the last one until June. Casey convinced Alex it was better this way. Less chance of Saturday nights at The Shipwreck becoming like all the other parties. We told everyone, “It’s a summer thing,” and they looked so disappointed Alex beamed.
To mark the last game Brett Nealey brought a twenty-four pack of Bud, covering it with a coat until he got inside. “For after,” he said. “And nobody’s driving. It’s only for after.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. People had figured out that the normal parental rules didn’t apply at The Shipwreck. They’d sneaked beers in their coats but until now they’d kept their stash hidden from Alex.
This was new ground. A test. Casey and I exchanged a long look.
We often met each other’s eyes when Alex was being particularly Alex, like parents did when they caught their child doing something out of line but weren’t sure how much discipline to mete out.
That night Casey’s eyes stayed fixed on mine longer than usual. In a few seconds she must have calculated, weighed the risks of letting this happen against what it would cost Alex if she told Brett he couldn’t keep his beer. Casey didn’t care what they thought about her. It was only about Alex.
So she didn’t protest. Nobody did.
“Only for after,” Alex said.
* * *
My dad thought the hunts were wonderful. Every Sunday dinner, he asked me what had been on the list the night before, why we went for some items and not others, who’d won. He said he had ideas for Alex. That she should feel free to consult him or Ollie.
My sweet father. He wanted to make Alex’s Saturday nights into a history lesson.
“Instead of any old grave rubbing she could have you get one of an early settler’s headstone,” he said on the last Sunday of August, pointing with the pepper mill. “Someone from the town founding. And there’s that plaque marking the site of the skirmish with the Me-Wuk in 1747, you know, out at North Beach? Or how about a pinecone from the Sideways Tree?”
I swallowed a bite of pot roast. “But how could we prove it was from the Sideways Tree?”
The Sideways Tree on the thinly populated west side of the lake was a fir that went horizontal three feet up, where it had swerved to avoid the other trees that used to grow nearby. Years before, my dad and Ollie had propped it up with a wooden brace to keep it alive. (As far as I could tell, this was the sole accomplishment of the Coeur-de-Lune Historical Society.) When I was little I asked my dad why the tree’s pinecones looked the same as other pinecones. He always got a big kick out of it.
“Smarty-pants. It would have to be on an honor system,” he said. “The whole game is built on trust, right? She doesn’t have you stealing, does she?” He winked, as if this idea was absurd.
“No,” I answered quickly. Too quickly, because I could tell by the ever-so-slight narrowing of my mother’s eyes that she’d noticed. So. There’d been talk among her church biddies about the sinfulness factor of the scavenger hunts.
Casey made everyone promise to put back anything we “borrowed.” And it’s not like Alex had us taking anything valuable—last week there’d been restaurant saltshakers, a handful of pink powdered soap from the gas station bathroom. But she was lax about oversight, and Casey and I had given up trying to control who joined the games.
“I think it’s marvelous, don’t you, Ingrid? So creative.”
“Jeannette Archer said a pack of girls woke her up last Saturday. Screaming like the devil. She found a beer can in the alley the next morning.”
“Everyone knows Kyle Archer has to sneak his beer in the alley after fishing. She should be grateful to Alexandra Shepherd, giving the kids something to do on a Saturday night so they don’t get into trouble. What’s the harm? It’s good, clean fun.”
He winked at me. My dear, clueless dad. I shoved aside a mental image of Alex making room in the refrigerator for Brett Nealey’s beer. Only for after. But for some kids the “after” had become the main draw of Alex’s Saturday night games.
“...and carrying on the legacy of that summerhouse, too. Those Collier cousins used to tear all over town in the forties and fifties, playing pirates, cowboys and Indians.”
“You’re supposed to say Native Americans, Dad.” I prayed he and Ollie had never said anything like that in front of J.B.
I hadn’t seen him again, but whenever my dad mentioned “that nice college boy who works at Pedersen’s,” and how he was a better worker than Ollie’s own son, my cheeks fired up.
“Right. Cowboys and Native Americans. Anyway, there’s a great old photo of the Collier boys on the dock with fireworks. I’ll show you.”
“I bet Alex...Casey’s mother would love to see it, too.”
“Ingrid, did you ever join their games?”
My mother pursed her lips and stirred the gravy.
* * *
In my diary that night I drew two houses. One made of thick, straight lines like bars, another that was a whispered suggestion of a house, the lines curved, the roof open. A girl in the middle, eyes closed, hands touching the side of each. It was impossible to tell if she was pushing them away or pulling them closer.
22
June Names That Tune
Sunday before Labor Day
Two days before junior year
I woke with my heart pounding. The noise was terrible. Like someone had unspooled a roll of aluminum foil to perform a gymnastics ribbon routine on Casey’s bedroom floor.
It was only Casey opening her white Levelor blinds, letting an uncivilized amount of morning sun in. “Wakey-wakey, rise and shine.”
I hated that nasty metallic sound: rap-rap-rap-rap-rap.
I pulled a pillow over my face. “Why are you so perky? You sound like a deranged camp counselor.”
Casey hopped onto the bed, shaking it. She yanked the pillow away. “And you look like a dead raccoon.” She laughed. “I’m sorry, I love you, but you should see your eyes.”
“Removing my makeup was not high on my list of priorities last night. Why am I facing the wrong way?”
“You were like that when I came in. I had to inhale your feet all night.”
“Mean.” I rolled onto my side and curled up at the foot of the bed so I could face her. She’d stayed
up even later than me, to finish watching Xanadu on cable. She never woke up before me. Yet she was miraculously alert.
“What gives?” I said.
“We’re going to make our last Sunday before school count.”
“Good. Let’s go back to sleep.”
“No way. You have church.” Casey nodded at the navy dress and white cardigan I’d hung on her closet door.
“Maybe I’ll skip.”
“You always say that.”
“Sometime I will.”
“Not today. If you skip, she’ll blame the evil, pagan Shepherd women and your sleepover deal will be off. And you’ll ruin my plans.”
“What plans?”
“You’re going to clean up, and put on your church dress, and get home super early and make nice with your mom. Extra nice. This isn’t bake sale week, right?”
“No. I helped her last week.”
“You’re going to ask her really sweetly if you can go back-to-school shopping in Tahoe with some girls from school. Tell her you’re having pizza after but you’ll be back by eight. And this is important. Tell her Tish Mayhew might be in the group.”
“Tish Mayhew? She hates us. She said the scavenger hunts should be against the law because someone borrowed her mom’s stupid plastic elephant watering can and forgot to return it. No way am I spending the day with...”
“Chill. We’re not spending the day with Tish Mayhew.”
“Then what?”
“Your mom approves of the Mayhews because they go to your church.”
“Not my church. My mother’s church.”
“Right. But Tish is basically your mom’s wet dream of a best friend for you.”
“She wouldn’t put it exactly that way, but sure. So what’re we really doing?”
“After church meet me in the parking lot behind the drugstore so we can catch the 10:39 bus to San Francisco.”
“Are we finally going to that club? You know, the...Cheerful club?”
“That’s not it. Not this time. It’s a surprise. Go shower.” She pushed me off the bed.
As I stared at myself in the vanity mirror, realizing Casey hadn’t exaggerated much when she compared me to a dead raccoon, she said, “And, Laur?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t forget to bring your you-know-what. It’s important.”
* * *
Even when the bus rumbled out of Coeur-de-Lune she wouldn’t say where we were going. It obviously had something to do with my music box, though. When I wore my navy linen dress it went inside a wide pocket on my right hip. (I used six safety pins to secure the pouch.)
Casey’s outfit didn’t offer clues. She was dressed as she always was in the summer, in cutoffs and a T-shirt and black Chucks with no socks. She hadn’t even freshened the grubby Little Mermaid Band-Aid on her right palm, the one covering the blister she got gripping the paddle too tight during our three-hour kayak Friday.
“So, tell me,” I said, as the bus lumbered onto the freeway.
“When we’re closer. God, it feels good to get out of town. I can’t wait ’til we move away.”
“I’ll miss the lake,” I said.
“You’ll have a vacation place on the lake. We’ll have apartments in San Francisco.”
“In the same building.”
“Naturally. And I’ll stay with you every weekend in the summer while you get your kayaking fix.”
“What color do you want for your guest room?”
“Blue.”
We decorated our fantasy homes. My lake house would be rustic, but bigger than my family’s. The city apartments would be sleek and modern. Walking distance to clubs and restaurants and a zillion bookstores with used paperbacks, and a bunch of sophisticated friends. These friends were shapeless, faceless, a blurry backdrop to our adult fabulousness. But we knew they’d be different from the people in town.
I dozed and Casey read a book called Love Bites. Something about slutty vampires.
When we could see the triangle of the Transamerica building Casey finally said, “I got us ten minutes with June.”
It took a second to register.
I grasped her elbow. “The June? June Le Forestier? June Names That Tune? No!”
“Oui.” She checked her watch. “We’ve got to be there by three. That’s her break.”
“You talked to her?”
Casey shook her head. “I got the station’s intern on the phone. I said I had a family heirloom music box but couldn’t identify the tune. I pretended you’d called the program like a thousand times but never gotten through. And she said she’d help.”
“You’re incredible.” I touched the outside of my pocket automatically. Even through three layers—plastic, chamois, linen—I could feel the hard case.
“There’s a catch. June doesn’t know we’re coming.”
* * *
Radio KZSY was on Mission Street. An old brick building wedged between a burrito restaurant and a stucco apartment. The intern, a girl getting her PhD in musicology at Berkeley, ushered us into a break room reeking of burnt microwave popcorn.
When she left Casey said, “Look, Laur. In case this doesn’t work. If she won’t see us, or doesn’t know the song...”
“She always knows the song.”
“But. Just in case. We’ll keep trying. So don’t be too crushed, okay?”
“She’ll know it.”
I’d listened to June Names That Tune every Sunday night for six years. I’d heard her voice in the dark so many times I knew its bronzy richness, its hills and valleys, as well as Alex knew Casey Kasem’s.
June had a couple of signature lines. One was “deep into the vault.”
I’m going deep into the vault this time, she’d say, and sometimes she pretended she was pushing aside old cobwebby synapses and dendrites to get to the memory. And just when it seemed someone was finally going to stump her she’d come out with the answer. Composer, date, everything. And it would be obvious she’d known all along.
Her other big line was “the cold and brutal judgment of time.” She used that to describe works that were, in her opinion, underappreciated. Shostakovich’s “Symphony 15,” she’d say. A lovely thing. Shame that one has gone out of fashion. Lost to the cold and brutal judgment of time.
When her heels clacked in the hall I straightened into my best church posture to greet her. Hers would be impeccable, regal. I pictured her in a black dress suit, with short black hair and red lipstick. Elegant as the words that poured out of her so beautifully on the radio.
June Le Forestier stomped in with an annoyed expression and a commuter mug the size of a beer stein that said Composers Do It In Double Time. She wore plastic clogs, not heels, and stalked over to the coffee machine in the corner without glancing in our direction.
The uncharitable thought came immediately: Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle. The heroine in a series of books I’d been addicted to when I was little. Soft and bulging, great shelf-like bosom, gray hair in a center-part bun.
“One minute,” she said. “I’m shit-tired.”
A foulmouthed, lobotomized Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle.
“What’s this again? Family heirloom?” she eventually asked.
I froze, trying to reconcile this barking creature with the patrician June Le Forestier I’d worshipped in the dark.
“Show her,” Casey said.
I fumbled with the safety pins in my pocket, cutting my thumb. I finally managed to pull the music box out, remove it from its protective bags, and set it on the table. I glanced at Casey, uncertain, but she nodded so I opened the lid.
As the music played June gulped coffee, her back to us. When the last note rang out, haunting and sweet, she didn’t speak. She flipped the lid of the coffee maker and lifted the plastic cup from the top, then banged it against the trash can to rele
ase the soggy filter and grounds.
Casey turned to me, pity in her eyes.
“Let’s go, Laur.” I’m so sorry, she mouthed.
So. No song name after all. The tears threatened, a watery film blurring the room. My thumb pulsed and there was a glistening red oval of blood under the nail bed where I’d scraped myself on the safety pin. I wiped my hand on my dress but the blood welled up again, and I felt a familiar rushing in my head.
I looked away from the blood, reaching for the box with my left hand so I wouldn’t stain it. I examined the whorls in the driftwood I had come to know so well, distinctive as a fingerprint.
It was just an object my mom happened to have, a trinket. She probably never knew what song it was any more than I did. My attempt to give it more meaning seemed childish now.
June was scooping grounds into a fresh filter when she spoke again. “Got a pen?”
Casey scrabbled in her backpack and pulled out a pen and Love Bites.
“‘L’Amour est Bleu.’ ‘Love is Blue.’ Composed by André Popp in 1967. Popularized by Vicky Leandros.”
Casey scribbled on the inside flap of Love Bites, scrambling to catch up. “Can you spell her last name?”
“L-e-a-n—” June swigged her coffee “—d-r-o-s.”
“Love is Blue.” I couldn’t speak.
Casey filled the silence for me. “Thank you so much. This means a lot to us.”
June, glugging coffee, gave a careless wave.
As she passed on her way out she noticed the music box and paused. “Unusual case. Stone? Marble?”
“Driftwood.”
“Unusual,” she repeated. “Pretty tune, too. Never hear it anymore.”
I nodded. She was almost out the door when I blurted out, in an effort to make up for forgetting to thank her, “I guess it’s been ‘lost to the cold and brutal judgment of time.’”
She seemed surprised for a second, then looked me in the eyes and snorted her appreciation. “One sec.”
While she was gone Casey tore a strip of brown paper towel from the dispenser over the sink and wrapped my thumb. “You got blood on your church dress.”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”
The Summer List Page 16