Breathing Water (11 page)

Authors: T. Greenwood

Tags: #General Fiction

BOOK: Breathing Water

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“I say we camp out at your house and catch him,” she said, shining the flashlight brightly on my hands as I spread out the blanket.

“I tried that, and then those kids broke in.”

“I used to do that,” she said, nodding her head as she built a pyramid of kindling.

“What?”

“Break in. Just twice. With Bugs. That's Alice's daddy. When we were in high school.”

“You did that?” I asked, bewildered.

“Just to make out. I think Alice might've been conceived at that green camp at the north end of the lake. You know the one?”

“I think so,” I said and took a sip of my new beer.

“We didn't take anything,” she said. “And we only went to places that we knew belonged to people from outta town. New Yorkers. Flatlanders.” She laughed.

“Where's Bugs now?” I asked, though I had no memory of anyone named Bugs.

“Florida.” She sneered. “West Palm Beach or some other fucking place like that. It can't be far enough away from me.”

“And Alice, she lives with you?”

Maggie softened. She lit a match and watched the quick flame reaching for the wood. “Um-hum.”

I handed her a piece of newspaper.

“She doesn't talk,” Maggie said and held the flame to the newspaper.

“Why?” I asked.

She looked at me and shrugged. “She just stopped, that's all. The doctor says she's a mute. I hate that word. I told 'em she's just being stubborn.” She laughed. “Like her mama.”

“Look,” I said, pointing to a vague explosion of purple in the distant sky.

“That's probably the grand finale.” Maggie snuffed, ripping open the bag of marshmallows and handing me another beer.

I twisted off the cap, despite the sharp sting in the soft skin of my palm, and drank deeply.

We held hands to keep from falling as we walked down what we thought was the path after the marshmallows were all burned and the beer was gone. Maggie's hands were big. Her fingers were thick but smooth; no rings separating her hand from mine.

“I'm hungry,” Maggie said, holding a branch away from the path so that I could get by without getting scratched. “I could go for a skillet breakfast. Hash, eggs, biscuits, and gravy.”

“Me too,” I said, stepping over a rock.

“Yeh, right. I bet you haven't had a drop of gravy in your life.”

“I have too,” I argued.

“I don't know how I can eat that crap after working at the diner all day, but I can. My mama used to say I had a hollow leg. Somewhere along the line it filled up though, cause now all that gravy is in my ass.” She moved the flashlight from the path to her butt. “See?”

“Maggie,” I said, but I was laughing at her illuminated rear.

Miraculously we arrived at the road, and inside the camp, Maggie started searching through the cupboards for something resembling biscuits and gravy. She settled on an old box of pancake mix, and as I was changing into something warmer, she made the kitchen smell like breakfast.

The butter was warm and sweet. Gussy's real maple syrup tasted like angels dancing on my tongue. Maggie kept putting more soft pancakes on my plate, and I didn't have the energy or the heart to resist.

After we ate, Maggie yawned. “I'm pooped.”

“Do you wanna stay here?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “I'm too drunk to drive back home.”

“I'll make you a bed.”

I brought some quilts down and set her up in the daybed. I climbed upstairs to the loft and lay down. I couldn't sleep. My head was spinning, and I couldn't stop thinking about the gifts. About the Hansel and Gretel house. Finally, I got out of bed and put my clothes back on. I knew that if I walked for a while I would get tired enough to sleep.

Outside, the sky was dark blue. Clouds moved across the moon like ghosts. I was still tipsy, but it felt like I was only sleepwalking as I walked toward the stained-glass cottage. But I began to feel sick as soon as I had snuck around the side of the small building next to the Hansel and Gretel cabin. I thought of Maggie and Bugs breaking into the camp across the lake. I had never broken in anywhere before. My head was spinning, my hands shaking. But there was no car parked in the driveway. There were no lights on in the house. There was an unfamiliar bicycle leaning against the tree, but no signs of life otherwise.

I was dizzy and spinning. But the door was unlocked and when I shone the flashlight into the open room, I caught my breath. There were wooden boxes everywhere, all shapes and sizes. All colors and hues. The shelves along the walls were littered with jars, and in each jar was something different. Broken glass. Silver beads. Shells. Rusty nails and brittle leaves. On the counter were unidentifiable tools, glue, stacks of sheet music, old magazines, and filmy pieces of colored plastic.

I aimed the light on a box near the back wall. There was a dollhouse made of wood painted red. But inside, instead of furniture and dolls, were small glass balls: pink, teal, orange, and blue. In every room there were what seemed like a hundred colored balls. Like a gum ball machine. Like a dream. I walked to the dollhouse and realized that there was a wall of glass keeping the balls inside. That in the dollhouse attic, all of the balls were shades of blue.

I ran my finger across the counter, touching the rusty coffee can filled with paintbrushes. It must be an artist's studio, I thought as I pulled a long feather from a crack in the wall. I felt suddenly at ease here as I ran the tip of the feather along the length of my arm.

Then I heard a noise. Like music, faint but definitely there. I clicked off the flashlight and stood perfectly still. I began to spin again without the sense of walls to keep me aligned with the world. I reached over and slowly closed the door, trying not to panic. I was startled, and quite suddenly sober.

I crawled along the floor to a window and peered out into the night. I could hear my own heart pounding. I put my palms on the floor and leaned my weight onto my arms until my wrists began to ache. Just as I was certain that no one was there, a light went on inside the house, and I could see the profile of a man behind the drawn curtains. He walked across the room and stopped by the window. He lit a pipe (I recognized the graceful bend of wood from my grandfather and Magoo) and began to smoke. I swore I could smell the heady scent of tobacco from my place there on the brick floor. All the old men in my memories had smoked pipes, and the smell was as familiar and welcome as that of coffee or soap. But there was something inconsistent. Something wrong. Because he didn't have the posture of an old man. His shoulders didn't slope in the severe way of a man carrying time. He was young, and tall. And I smelled hickory and cedar. Smoldering fireworks and sweet, sweet tobacco.

My tongue felt like a fuzzy caterpillar when I woke up the next morning. There was a dull thud in my head, a simple reminder of the smoky memory of the night before. Clarity only came when I opened the window to gray sky and slivers of cold rain. I pulled on my flannel robe and a pair of warm socks. I vaguely recollected giving Maggie a quilt and a pillow and motioning to the daybed before I stumbled up the stairs that seemed to wind forever the night before. My visit to the Hansel and Gretel cottage could have been a dream.

When I reached the porch, I found the daybed made carefully. The quilt was folded at the foot of the bed. There was a piece of Gussy's stationery on the desk with Maggie's careful cursive, “Thank you for the place to crash. I'll give you a call. Love, Maggie.”

I was not expecting a gift. Not today; it was a holiday yesterday. Maggie's departure had prepared me for an empty doorstep. I didn't hold my breath when I looked out the window. I didn't even feel sad when I saw there was nothing there.

I had a new feeling about Colette coming to visit. Until then, I had felt remotely nauseous imagining how I might entertain my sister for an entire weekend. But now, as the small green shoots sprouted up through the dirt in the terra-cotta planters, I felt a bit of anticipation, almost happiness at the prospect of seeing my sister for the first time in all these years. I was glad she was coming alone. Yari had always made me feel itchy. I couldn't stand to watch the way he fawned over Colette while she trod her slippered feet softly across him.

I even imagined that I'd take her to the island, that we would pick berries and make a pie. Those were the kind of things we used to do. We always liked to do the same things, even if she was always telling me how to do them.
Not so much flour. Roll it thinner, Effie.
But it was those moments in the kitchen when I didn't mind so much that her hands pressed against mine as we fluted the edges and poured sugar on the leaky berries. Gussy would leave us alone in the kitchen, let us play the college station on the radio, close her eyes when we carried her the steaming plate.

“Effie.” Colette smiled and walked gracefully toward me from the Subaru where Yari was unloading their bags from the trunk. My heart sank. I thought she was coming alone. She looked taller than I remembered her. Her black hair was braided and wound, suspended magically by two ornate enamel chopsticks. She was wearing camel-colored clothes: palazzo pants and a thin taupe shirt. Her earrings dangled to her chin. She looked beautiful.

“Hi,” I said and hugged her. Her lips brushed my cheek in an almost kiss. She smelled like sandalwood.

She put her arm around my shoulder as we walked toward the camp. It felt almost right, this new affection. “The camp looks great,” she said.

“I've still got one more side to do,” I said.

“Still, it looks a thousand times better than the last time we were here.”

“You want some iced tea?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said and stretched her arms over her head. Her sleeves slipped down to her elbows, revealing her thin arms.

The day before I had put a pickle jar filled with water and raspberry tea bags out on the sawhorse to brew in the sun all day. I got out Gussy's blender and ground up garbanzo beans and garlic to make hummus, Colette's favorite. I bought whole wheat pita pockets and sprouts at the natural foods store. Colette has always been careful with what she eats.

Yari opened up the door and struggled to squeeze through the doorway with all of Colette's bags. They were mismatched, but tastefully so. A hard leather suitcase, an antique, tapestried round train case. An Oriental-looking garment bag.

“You guys are only here for the weekend, right?”

“Relax, Effie,” Colette said, squeezing a slice of lemon into her tea and lighting a cigarette. “We're going straight to Saratoga from here to stay at Justin's.”

“How is he?” I asked.

“Great. He's started a landscaping business.”

Justin was Colette's best friend from college. I loved him when I was in high school. When she brought him home on the weekends, I couldn't sleep for days before their arrival. But he adored Colette. Of course, she would never admit it. They were best friends. They held hands. They argued. They napped curled around each other in the hammock in our backyard. If she admitted that he loved her, she would also have to admit that she was breaking his heart. I imagined him now planting flowers, digging into the soil, making mazes of leaves and trees. Sometimes when I was with Max I would close my eyes and try to conjure Justin's gentle face.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Yari,” I said.

“Thank you.” He smiled. He seemed relieved that we weren't talking about Justin anymore. Colette is capable of great cruelty.

“Christopher broke his ankle in five places,” Colette said, shaking her head. “A bad break for him, but a good one for Yari.”

Yari looked down at his hands.

“I'm sure he would have made it anyway, Colette,” I reprimanded.

“Of course.” She smiled and reached for Yari's hand. “I didn't mean it like that.”