The Light in Summer

by Mary McNear

  “I have a couple of those,” Maggie said. “I just can’t find them. I think the dog might have gotten to them.” She yawned again, and Billy smiled sympathetically. She remembered how chaotic those days were, and that was with one child, not three. Of course, unlike her, Maggie was married, but married to a man who traveled at least two weeks out of every month. Maybe, in a way, that was harder, Billy mused. To have that help and then not to have that help. Billy’s parents, at least, had always been there.

  Bella babbled something now, and Billy, whose nose was inches from her wispy blond hair, said, “She smells wonderful, like . . . cinnamon toast.”

  “That’s what she had for breakfast. I think she got some of it in her hair.”

  Billy nestled Bella against her and reached out for Ian’s hand. He smiled cautiously and, coming out from behind his mother, put his little palm inside hers.

  “Go,” she said to Maggie, pointing her chin at the door. “Make a break for it. I can watch them while you get a coffee at Pearl’s.”

  “Oh, God, I would love a cappuccino, Billy. Five minutes, I promise,” she said, making the Scout’s honor sign.

  “Go,” Billy said again, though when she was gone, Billy had Rae to contend with. Rae didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to. Her look said it all: I don’t know why you’re always doing that for her, Billy. You are not a babysitting service.

  Billy’s look back at her said, I know, I know. But she looks so tired. And it’s only for five minutes. And let’s face it, her kids are so cute. And Billy felt the little pang she got every once in a while when she held someone else’s baby. A pang accompanied by the knowledge that while she’d always wanted another child, the opportunity to have one was very possibly slipping away. Billy smiled down now at Bella, and Bella smiled back at her, revealing a tiny front tooth just coming in. “There it is,” Billy said, “the tooth that kept you and your mommy awake last night.” She let go of Ian’s hand long enough to smooth out Bella’s cinnamon toast hair, then said to Rae, who was hovering disapprovingly nearby, “Do you want to smell her head?”

  “Her head? No. Why?”

  “Because it smells so good. It’s like, you know, a thing. Smelling babies’ heads.”

  “Not for me, it isn’t,” Rae said.

  “Your loss,” Billy said blithely. She took Bella and Ian over to the children’s area where, as predicted, their older brother Elliot was already sprawled out on the rug, surrounded by books. Billy perched on one of the little chairs, at a little table, and balanced Bella on her lap. “Do you want to do a puzzle?” she asked Ian. A wooden puzzle with large, easy-to-grasp pieces was on the tabletop.

  Ian shook his head. “No,” he said, pointing to it, his blue eyes serious. “Missing piece.”

  “That’s true. It does have a missing piece.” Billy sighed. “No sooner do we buy a new puzzle and put it out than one of its pieces goes missing. I don’t know what becomes of them, Ian. It’s a mystery.”

  Ian’s eyes widened. He liked the idea of a mystery, Billy saw. “Who do you think could be taking them?” she asked.

  He considered this. “A monster?” he said finally. Softly. He didn’t look afraid at this possibility, though. He looked fascinated.

  “Maybe.” Billy smiled. “But if it is, it’s a friendly monster.”

  He had some ideas about this, and by the time his mom had come back with her cappuccino, they’d talked about the monster—a puzzle monster—at length, and even done the puzzle, despite the missing piece. Billy had also put Bella down on the rug and followed her around as she crawled, pulling books out of the bottom shelves with gleeful abandon. After their mom had collected them, Billy reshelved these books, and thought about what Luke had been like when he was Ian’s age.

  He was so sweet, so curious and, in a way, so much easier than he was now. Yes, he’d needed her more then, in more immediate and practical ways than he did today—needed her to run his bath, tie his shoes, and make his chicken fingers. Motherhood was physical then, and physically tiring. But at least she’d understood what he needed. He needed her to love him, take care of him, and keep him safe. She’d never doubted her ability to do these things. Not really. Not after the first new mother jitters had worn off. She’d thought that this would be enough, that this love would see them through.

  When, she wondered, shelving a last book, had things gotten so complicated? Yes, Luke still needed her. She knew that. But she didn’t always know who he needed her to be, the loving parent or the disciplinarian? And the rules . . . the rules were constantly changing. Be involved, but not too involved. Foster independence, but not too much independence. There was always some elusive medium she couldn’t find.

  It wasn’t just the rules that were always changing. Luke seemed always to be changing, too. This, it turned out, was the most fascinating and exhausting and challenging part of raising a child. You, the parent, might feel as if you were an established person with specific characteristics, interests, and traits. But your child was always changing from one year to the next. Sometimes from one month, week, or day to the next. Whereas the young boy of ten might give you a hug when he got home from school, the eleven-year-old might suddenly one day not just stop hugging but also appear to be altogether appalled by the possibility. The boy who had loved drawing in middle school might one day put away his colored pencils and never use them again. She remembered picking Luke up after school about six months ago on a rainy day, and when she’d asked him how school had been, instead of giving her his usual commentary about everything from the funny stories his history teacher had told them to amusing tales of his table in the cafeteria, he’d simply said, “It was okay.” And then he was silent for the rest of the ride home. She’d tried to cajole him with stories of her day at the library, but he’d seemed intensely preoccupied, and eventually she’d turned on the car radio. That general silence had prevailed since, undermining the confidence she used to feel parenting Luke. She would give anything to get their easy camaraderie back. Give anything to know the right thing to say and do again, when everything she said and did now felt tentative and uncertain, a test balloon she was sending up to see how Luke would respond.

  Just as Billy finished straightening up the children’s area, there was a flurry of activity at the checkout desk. The summer tourist season was under way in Butternut now, and everyone wanted the perfect book to take to the beach, or read on the dock at their cabin, or maybe just fall asleep with in a lakeside hammock. Along with choosing which books to order, recommending books to patrons was the best part of Billy’s job, and she quite happily took it upon herself to find the right book for everyone. This took a lot of reading on Billy’s part. The Jane Austen books were for the back porch only. On her bedside table there was always a stack of contemporary fiction and nonfiction.

  The rest of the morning flew by, and after she’d eaten her brown bag lunch on the library’s back porch and was settling back in to work at the checkout desk, she heard a familiar voice say, “Ms. Harper?”

  “Hi, Mara,” Billy said, looking up and smiling at Mara Shepard, who, at ten years old, read more than anyone else who patronized the Butternut Library. “Are you done with those already?” Billy asked her of the stack of Louisa May Alcott novels Mara was balancing in her arms.

  Mara nodded and slid them across the desk to Billy.

  “How many times does that make for this series?” Billy asked, opening the top book—Little Women—and sliding the wand over its bar code to check it back in.

  “Three times,” Mara said. And then she added shyly, “But I still cry every time I read the scene when Beth dies.”

  “I know,” Billy said with a sigh. “Just thinking about it, even now, is enough to get my tear glands working. When I was your age, I used to reread it and think maybe this time it would end differently. But of course it never did. What are you going to read next?” she asked, checking the second book back in.

  “I don’t know. Do you have any sug
gestions?”

  Billy smiled. She always had a suggestion for Mara. She had never not had a suggestion for Mara. And what was so satisfying about Mara was that, unlike some of the patrons who asked for a recommendation from Billy, Mara actually followed it. She read the book and then, more often than not, she read it again. Since Mara had started coming here five years ago—her family lived across the street from the library—Billy had overseen her reading list, starting with her personal favorites, the Little House books, and progressing through the Betsy-Tacy books and the Chronicles of Narnia, with many other books between. Mara showed no sign of slowing down.

  “I do have a recommendation for you, Mara,” Billy said, jumping up and coming out from behind the checkout desk. “I’ve been saving this for you to read next year, but I think you’re ready for it now.” She led Mara to the Ls in the fiction section and ran her finger along the book spines until she found it. She pulled it out—it was a lovely leather-bound edition—and presented it to Mara.

  Mara examined the title. “A Wrinkle in Time?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It’s really good.”

  “All right. I’ll read it.” Mara smiled.

  “Let me know what you think of it,” Billy said. As they went to check it out, she envied Mara reading it for the first time.

  Once Mara left, the afternoon dragged. Billy was rarely bored at work because she didn’t have time to be bored, but occasionally the day could feel heavy on her hands. The new books that had come in recently needed to be processed, cataloged, and covered with a clear plastic film for protection before she could shelve them. When she was done with that, there were bookkeeping, budgeting, and preparing for the next board meeting. At one point, staring at her computer screen, she felt her eyelids droop. The library’s ambient noises weren’t helping—the drone of the air conditioner, the humming and clicking of the copy machine, even the rythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock that was a gift from one of the patrons. All of these made her feel it would be a miracle if she could keep herself awake. But she did. And by three o’clock, she got a second wind and decided to do some housekeeping, something that she enjoyed doing much more at the library than at home. “I don’t think the new cleaning woman is dusting,” she commented to Rae as she ran a feather duster over one of the shelves.

  “Genevieve?” Rae said of the woman Billy had recently hired to clean the library after hours once a week. “Oh, Genevieve is as blind as a bat.”

  “Hmm.” Billy frowned. “Well, she might have mentioned that.” She watched as the dust motes she’d disturbed swirled in the sunlight slanting in through the west-facing windows. “Rae,” she called as her friend started to wheel the book cart back to the book return bin.

  “Yes?”

  “I called my mother this morning. You know, about Luke.” This conversation had taken place in the bathroom at home, with Billy running the shower so Luke could not hear her as she told her mom about Saturday’s incident.

  “What did she say?”

  “Well, she said if I wanted to send him to North Woods Adventures for Teens—a program Officer Sawyer suggested—she’d split the cost with me.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “It was. But . . . when I broached the subject with Luke at the breakfast table, he said, ‘No. No way.’ The thing is, though, I think he’d really like it. A year ago, he would have jumped at the chance to go. I mean, the program for his age is ‘The Call of the Woods: Hiking, Canoeing, and Camping the Superior Hiking Trail.’ It’s two weeks with three counselors and twelve other boys. Shouldn’t that sound like heaven to him?”

  “It probably does. He just doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction of admitting it,” Rae said.

  Billy, still dusting, frowned. “I was on their Web site last night. I think it would be good for him. I don’t want it to feel like a punishment, though.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a punishment,” Rae said. “And even if it was”—she shrugged—“that’s your call.”

  “You sound like my mother.” During their phone call this morning, her mother had said, “You don’t need to be his friend right now. You need to be his parent. And if, as his parent, you feel strongly about him going on this trip, then he should go. Stop doubting your own authority.”

  And Rae, as if privy to this conversation, gave Billy a reassuring pat on the shoulder and said, “You’re a good mom, Billy. You just have to trust your instincts.”

  Billy was about to point out that her instincts seemed to be failing her lately, but Mr. Finch came in then for his late afternoon nap and stopped to chat with her on the way to his armchair.

  CHAPTER 10

  A couple of days later, Luke was hanging out with the same friends Billy had forbidden him to see.

  “Do you want another beer?” Van asked.

  Luke shook his head. “I haven’t finished this one yet,” he said, indicating the can of Miller High Life he was holding. He took another sip as if to prove he would finish it, eventually. He didn’t see how he could, though. It tasted so bitter. Did all beer taste like this, he wondered, or just this kind? He had no idea. He’d never tried it before today. Never tried any kind of alcohol, but he wasn’t about to tell Van and J.P. that. Maybe, he thought, this beer would have tasted better if it’d been cold, but J.P. had brought them in a grubby old paper bag. They were not only warm but also had a coating of dirt on them, like they’d just been sitting in a garage somewhere. Luke started to ask him where he’d gotten them, but he stopped himself. J.P. didn’t like it when Luke asked him questions. He always seemed suspicious of Luke, like he was going to snitch on him or something. It didn’t help that he thought Luke had gotten special treatment for the graffiti incident. He’d gotten off with a warning. Van and J.P. had to perform community service, and J.P. had to see a counselor since it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten into trouble.

  “You’re a slow drinker,” J.P. said to him now. He made it sound like an accusation. But Luke only shrugged. J.P. was sort of okay if you just kind of ignored him. Then he just kind of ignored you back. Luke didn’t like him that much, but when you hung out with Van, outside school anyway, J.P. kind of came with the package. J.P. lived next door to Van, and since he was a dropout, he had a lot of free time.

  Luke balanced on his skateboard now and tried to do a flip-kick with it. He couldn’t, though. For one thing, he was holding the beer, and for another, the concrete they were on—the parking lot behind an abandoned service station—was all cracked and choked with weeds. He gave up and went back under the overhang of the building’s roof, where Van and J.P. were drinking.

  God, it was hot, he thought, wiping his forehead. It should have felt cooler here in the shade, but it didn’t. The air was so hot and still that the silence felt loud. Almost like it was buzzing inside his head. Or was that the beer? He didn’t know. Maybe it was possible to get drunk on one beer—on less than one beer, if it was your first one. He took another sip and tried not to flinch as he tasted it, especially since J.P. was watching him.

  “You don’t even like it,” J.P. said.

  “It’s okay,” Luke said. And then, surprising himself, he added, “Vodka’s better.”

  J.P. finished his beer. He threw the can on the ground and stomped on it, hard, so that he crushed it almost flat. “You don’t know anything about vodka,” he scoffed, kicking the can away.

  “Whatever,” Luke said, looking down at his skateboard.

  “He knows about it,” Van offered, leaning against the wall. “His mom has a liquor cabinet, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she does,” Luke said casually. He’d told Van this, and it was true, sort of. It wasn’t really a cabinet. It was more of a cupboard, and the liquor didn’t take up the whole thing, just a little bit of it. It was a couple of bottles, really, that his mom kept mostly for guests. She preferred wine, though. “Actually, my mom mostly drinks wine,” he said, shooting a l
ook at J.P., who was opening another can of beer.

  “What kind?” he asked, instantly alert. “Red or white?”

  “White,” Luke said. “She likes chardonnay,” he added, proud that he’d remembered the kind of wine she drank.

  “Chardonnay,” J.P. hooted. “That’s a ladies’ drink. Men don’t drink that. They drink red wine.”

  Luke’s face burned. Was that true? He didn’t know what men drank. His Pop-Pop had hardly drunk at all, except on special occasions, and as for his dad . . . who knew what his dad drank? But J.P. had already moved on. “I can’t believe your mom is a librarian,” he said. “That’s so lame. Does she just, like, yell at people all day? ‘Can you be quiet, please?’” he said in a high voice. “‘Please! You’re being very disrespectful of all the books here. They need absolute silence,’” he sang in a voice bordering on the hysterical.

  “Shut up,” Luke muttered, truly angry with J.P. for the first time. He didn’t always want to be around his mom, but he didn’t want people making fun of her, either. “She doesn’t sound like that,” he added, glaring at J.P. “That’s, like, a librarian on TV or something.”

  “Yeah, his mom’s actually pretty cool,” Van said, coming to his rescue. Luke felt grateful. Van and his mom had never actually met each other. He didn’t want them to meet each other, either. Not after the trouble Luke had gotten into with Van, and not when he wasn’t even supposed to be with him at all. But still, it was a nice thing to say.