Crooked River: A Novel (8 page)

We met at the picnic table. I brushed dirt off the bench and sat down. He sat down across from me, set the pastry box on the tabletop in front of us, and opened the lid. “Blackberry cobbler from Patti’s. Still warm.”

He pulled three forks from his back pocket and held one out to me.

I took it. “What’s this for?”

“Yesterday,” he said. “An apology, I guess. For how I acted at the store, yelling the way I did, making a scene. Upsetting people.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, well. My mom thought it was.” He spun a fork in his fingers. “But it was as good an excuse as any.”

“Excuse for what?”

“To see you.” He stared so hard, I had to look away.

Laura was always whispering about the cute boys in our class and writing their names in her notebook. She’d even kissed Derek Bosch last summer. But the most I’d ever done was hold hands with Gavin Thompson on the bus to the science museum in fifth grade. I didn’t pay much attention to boys, and they didn’t pay much attention to me. But Travis was different, and I thought maybe I was starting to like him, which was pretty bad timing, considering everything else going on in my life right now.

I jabbed my fork into the cobbler and took a large bite. It tasted rich, sweet, like those long days of summer when you spend entire afternoons just dangling your bare feet in the river, and the whole world breathes fresh honey. I swallowed and nodded and said, “This is really good.”

Travis ate a few bites. “Best cobbler west of the Mississippi.”

“Is that true?”

“It should be.”

I laughed a little and ate more and, after a few minutes, half the cobbler was gone.

Up to this point, Ollie had been watching us from the grass. Now, she got up and, with her book still in hand, walked slowly toward the table. She stopped a few steps away.

Travis offered her the last fork. “Get it while it’s hot.”

She stared at him, not blinking.

He shifted on the bench, waved the fork a little, and said, “I brought it for both of you.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on Travis, Ollie came right up next to me and leaned hard against my shoulder. She plucked on my T-shirt sleeve.

“Don’t be rude,” I said to her.

Travis smiled and shrugged. “It’s all right. More for us.” He placed the extra fork on the picnic table and took another bite of cobbler.

Ollie looked back and forth between me and Travis. Her mouth twitched. She pushed her glasses up and yanked harder on my shirt.

“Stop being such a pest, Oll.” I brushed her off. “Leave us alone.”

She gave me a final piercing stare and then turned and ran, full sprint, to the teepee.

Travis shook his head. “I’ve never met a kid who doesn’t like sweets.”

“She just gets shy sometimes.” I watched the tent flap, waiting for it to open again and Ollie to come back out. She didn’t.

Travis stared off into the woods in the direction of Crooked River, then turned to me again and said, “You want to walk down to the water?”

“Sure,” I said with a small shrug, like it was no big deal.

Travis closed the pastry box and stood up from the table.

I went to the teepee and poked my head inside to tell Ollie I wouldn’t be gone long and if she needed something to come get me. She was standing over the card table, scribbling on a piece of paper. There were other papers wadded up and tossed aside, growing in a pile on the rug by her feet.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She glanced over her shoulder at me but kept scribbling.

“I’m going down to the river with Travis,” I said.

She wadded up the paper she was writing on and threw it at the teepee wall. It bounced off the canvas and rolled underneath Bear’s cot. She tore a blank piece of paper from Bear’s sketchbook and pressed the pen down hard.

I left her there alone and walked with Travis into the trees.

10
ollie

I
follow them. My sister and her new friend who is hiding something. Travis, who is stitched together with secrets and dark threads. He says something I can’t hear. My sister laughs and touches his arm. The one from the river coils around my sister’s ankle and leg, wraps around her torso and squeezes. My sister feels nothing.

But I do.

My stomach twists. I can’t catch my breath. I lean one hand against a tree trunk and wait for them to move farther away.

I keep my distance, being as quiet as I can. Light feet, ghost feet: what Mom used to say when I would sneak up on her.

They do not see me. They do not see anything but each other.

Travis slips his hand into his pocket. He walks this way for a while, one hand tucked out of sight, the other swinging loose at his side.

They have almost reached the place where the trees end and the grass skims my waist. The path here is narrow and half buried in weeds. They have to walk single file. My sister goes first, leading the way. The one from the river slides through the grass behind her and Travis comes after. He slows his pace, stretching the gap between them. I am last and far behind, but close enough to see him pull his hand from his pocket and open his fingers. Something falls to the ground, but he doesn’t stop to pick it up again.

He catches up to my sister, and they disappear over a small hill.

I stay in the trees.

What he dropped glints in a sun-yellow polka dot. The one who follows me floats over the top of it, too. She’s a glowing orb, changing red to blue to green to bright white. I bend and pick up what he left behind. A lighter. Heavy, solid, made of gold. One side is smooth. I turn it over and rub my thumb across an etched rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike.

I hear their voices up ahead, but their words are lost to me. I put the lighter in my pocket, where it will be safe, and go back to the meadow to wait.

I
do not like this in-between boy, this almost man.

I tried to tell my sister before she left with him. I went to the teepee knowing she’d follow. I went to the teepee and grabbed a pen, pressed it to paper, tried to write her a warning.

It should be easy. The words played over and over in my head:

He’s not who you think he is.

He’s not your friend.

We can’t trust him.

He’ll hurt us.

Tell him to go away.

But trying to write is like trying to talk. The Shimmering want to climb inside me and write their way free. But if I let them in, I’m afraid they’ll never leave.

My sister came into the teepee, and the one from the river was right behind her. She was upset. They both were.

The one from the river slid up beside me and put her hand on my hand and tried to move the pen across the paper. It felt like needles being jabbed beneath my fingernails, like someone twisting my bones. The worst Indian burn in the history of all Indian burns, and I jerked my hand away from her. The pen went sideways, streaking ink across the paper in jagged lines and bleeding scratches.

“What are you doing?” my sister said.

She has to know, and I am the only one here who can tell her.

I tried to write a
T,
but my hand was shaking so bad, it came out looking more like an
S
.

My sister stared at me the way she did after the funeral when she found me in Mom’s closet, wrapped in Mom’s gray peacoat and all her winter scarves, wearing her pink rain boots, reading
Alice
by flashlight. She stared at me like she didn’t know who I was anymore.

I wadded up my useless scribbles and threw the paper as hard as I could.

My sister said, “I’m going down to the river with Travis,” and left.

I
have to find another way. I have to make her see, before it’s too late.

11
sam

I
t had only been three days since Ollie and I found the dead woman floating in our swimming hole. Three days that stretched into forever.

I got to the riverbank before Travis and took off my shoes and socks. At a glance, everything looked the same. Same white alders huddled on the banks. Same rapids twisting, crashing, spilling downriver. Same paddle bugs skimming across the shallows.

And yet.

A dark stain spread over the surface of my swimming hole, swelling, growing darker, like a body rising from the deep, like black fingers reaching toward me. I blinked, and the stain moved away. Not a stain at all, only a cloud crossing in front of the sun, and the water sparkled again, swirling slowly as the current moved around the rocks, lapped against my toes, beckoned. I took a long step backward, putting distance between me and the river.

Travis crashed through the brush behind me. He took off his shoes, too, stood next to me in the sand, and stared out over the water.

“I bet she floated right by here,” he said in a quiet voice.

He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, but I was caught up in thinking about the dead woman and how even though she was probably in some hospital basement, zipped up in a body bag, and not here, not anywhere near here, I still saw her floating. Just there, beneath the dark glass of my swimming hole. Sunlight reflected off her pale skin, and then she was coming closer, pushing to the surface. Her fingers broke through first, then her face, her eyes and mouth wide open, water streaming from her bruised purple lips and tangled black hair. She gasped my name and reached for me, then slid under again, sinking into the dark. Ripples cut through my swimming hole, out beyond the half-sunk boulders and into the main current where they were swept downstream. Echoes of her.

Travis nudged my shoulder. “Earth to Sam.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them again, she was gone. It was all in my head.
She
was all in my head.

“Do they know who she was yet? Why she was in Terrebonne?” I asked, climbing onto a large, flat rock that extended a few feet over the water. I pulled my knees to my chest and curled my bare toes against the sun-warmed stone.

Travis climbed up next to me. “There was an article about it in the paper this morning. She was from Eugene, I guess. Her parents are driving in tomorrow to ID the body.”

“It’s so sad,” I said.

Travis nodded and squinted at the trees crowding the opposite bank.

We sat close together, our shoulders brushing, and listened to the river hiss, birds chirp, a hawk scream.

Picking at a bit of moss growing on the rock, I glanced at Travis and asked, “Does your dad get angry with you a lot?”

His arm twitched against mine.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, wishing I could take the question back. “I shouldn’t have—you don’t have to answer that.”

“No. It’s all right,” Travis said. He stretched his legs out in front of him. His bare feet dangled above the water. “He’s been spending a lot of time in his studio lately getting ready for a show in New York at the end of the month. Things can get a little . . . tense . . . this close to opening night.”

Billy Roth was Terrebonne’s most famous artist-in-residence, or used-to-be-famous, as Deputy Santos had once called him, since he hadn’t sold a single new piece in over ten years. He was a sculptor who’d stopped sculpting. A has-been, all washed up, used up, dried up. If he was working again, preparing for a new show, that was a big deal. I didn’t know much about his rise and fall—when he started, why he stopped—only that his pieces were strange and sold for a lot of money in certain circles. Though some people—Franny—called them abominations, it seemed to me that a new piece, or pieces, from Billy Roth could bring in much-needed income for his family. For the whole town of Terrebonne, even.

“That’s great, Travis,” I said, bumping him with my shoulder. “You must be so excited!”

He shrugged.

“Have you seen what he’s working on?”

He shook his head. “He keeps the door locked. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing out there.” He took a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his pocket and tapped it against his knee. “Mom’s seen it, though.”

“Yeah?”

“She seems to think it’s worth something, I guess. She keeps saying it’s ‘unlike anything he’s ever done before.’ Experimental. Edgy. Even more so than his older pieces. She thinks it’s going to be his grand reentry into the art world. His ‘resurrection.’ ” He took a cigarette from the pack, lifted it to his lips, then stopped and stared at it like he didn’t know how it had gotten there in the first place. He stuffed the cigarette back in with the rest and rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.”

“Maybe you should wait until you see it and then decide,” I said.

He grunted and changed the subject. “So what’s the deal with your sister?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s kind of . . . weird. Right?”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, trying to come up with a good answer.

Travis folded his knees to his chest, so we were sitting almost the exact same way. “I’m not trying to be mean or anything. She just seems . . . I don’t know . . . quiet.”

“It’s been a rough summer,” I said.

“Tell me about it.”

We were quiet for a few minutes, each of us lost in our own private thoughts, and then Travis asked, “Where’s your mom?”

I stiffened but said nothing.

“She doesn’t stay in the meadow with you guys?” he pushed.

I folded my hands together and squeezed until my fingers started to hurt, not sure what to say, what not to say, not knowing how much he knew already and how much I was willing to tell. A yellow-and-black butterfly flitted past us and disappeared across the water.

He touched my arm. “Sam?”

My fingertips had turned white, but they didn’t hurt so much anymore. Not compared to the lump growing in my throat and the headache starting to pulse at the base of my neck. I stared at part of a wooden fence visible through the trees on the other side of Crooked River, stared and tried not to cry.

I hugged my knees as tight to my chest as I could and said, “Our mom . . . ,” but I couldn’t think of a good way to finish.

Died
seemed too blunt and cold, too much like being punched in the ribs by a stranger.
Passed away
was filled with too much sighing and melodramatic clasping of hands.
Kicked the bucket
turned the whole horrible thing into a child’s game. Finally, I settled on, “She had a heart attack.”

Travis turned so he was facing me and said, “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Is she . . . She’s okay, right?”

I wanted more than anything to say yes, yes, she was fine; she was spending the summer in Greece or Spain or Fiji. Someplace warm and beautiful and interesting. In a few weeks, she would come back for me and Ollie, come and take us home.

“Sam?” Travis squeezed my arm.

I looked at him, then looked away again so I didn’t fall apart, and in that single second, in that swinging glance, without me ever having to say a word, he understood what had happened. He let go of my arm and buried his fingers in his hair.

He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” even though none of it had anything to do with him.

I stared into the sun until my tears burned dry.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m getting used to it.”

I wanted to change the subject. I wanted to slide off this rock and slink away. I wanted Travis to stop rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes and apologizing. I wanted him to smile instead. He was cute when he smiled.

“Maybe you should have brought me two cobblers,” I said.

Travis stared at me. He shook his head and said, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” I frowned.

“Pretend it’s not important.”

I shrugged. Pretending was easier.

Travis sighed and stared out across the water again. After a few seconds, he said, “I bet you didn’t know I had a sister.”

“You do?” I was embarrassed for not knowing this. Terrebonne’s population was 916, on a good day, and even though I only lived here a couple weeks a year, between Franny and Deputy Santos I heard enough about everybody else’s business that I should have known Travis had a sister.

He cleared his throat. “I
did
.” He reached for his Marlboros but didn’t pull out a cigarette. It seemed enough for him to just hold the pack. “She died a long time ago.”

I leaned into Travis’s shoulder to feel his warmth and the pressure of him there, to feel him push back. “How?”

“Car accident.” He pinched the skin on his wrist. “They said she died instantly, that she didn’t feel any pain. But I think they just said that so I’d stop crying.”

“How old were you?” I was whispering now, unable to force the words louder.

“Seven,” he said. “She had just turned nine. It was her birthday, and they were coming home from her party.”

There was a stone in my throat making it hard to swallow, a fist in my chest making it painful to breathe.

Travis went on, “Dad was driving. Mom and I, we were supposed to be in the car too, but I woke up with a bad fever that morning so she stayed home with me. Some asshole crossed the center line. Pushed them straight into a tree.”

“Oh my God.” My words barely a whisper.

The river flowed into our silence, rushing and tumbling without end.

“It never really goes away, you know,” Travis said, reaching over and pressing one finger to the base of my throat near my collarbones. “That sharp ache you feel right here. You get used to it, but it’s always there.”

“Like a bee sting that won’t quit,” I whispered.

He nodded and lifted his hand, but I could still feel the pressure of his finger, the heat burning there at the surface. I gulped air and swallowed and tried to think of something, anything else, but I kept seeing her. Mom, lying on her back on the blue-and-yellow quilt, eyes open, staring up at the stars. Fireworks boomed overhead, and she was staring and staring, but not seeing. And her skin was so gray. So completely and finally gray. Wiped of color, of life, of love. And then Ollie, kneeling beside her, grabbing her arm and shaking hard, saying, “Mom? Mom? Mom, wake up,” over and over. I had pushed her back, screaming at her, “Don’t touch her! Don’t touch her!” because, even though I didn’t believe in that kind of thing, somewhere before I’d heard it was bad luck to touch the dead.

“We were right there,” I said. “Ollie and me. Sitting right there with her and we never knew anything was wrong until it was too late. Maybe it was because the fireworks were so loud or because there were so many people screaming. We were all screaming. The stars were so big. The night was on fire. It was all so beautiful. Until.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head, opened them again, but the terrible images remained.

“I pushed Ollie away from her.” My voice wavered. “I shoved her like Mom was contagious or something. I just kept thinking that if Ollie touched her, she’d die, too.”

I didn’t realize I’d been crying until Travis brushed his fingers over my cheek. I pulled away from him and wiped my own tears.

Laughing a little and squinting at the churning white water, I said, “It was her one chance to say good-bye, her last chance to say ‘I love you,’ and whatever else needed saying, and I couldn’t even let her have that much.”

“Sam . . .”

“The paramedics came and some old woman named Marge drove us to the hospital and we called Mom’s best friend, Heather, and then Bear and Grandma and Grandpa, and then we waited in the chapel with a social worker who had hot pink fingernails and kept popping her gum and looked way too young to be there. When I asked when we could go see our mom, she kept saying, ‘In a little while, honeycakes. In a little while.’ And then Heather was there, crying and shuffling us out of the hospital and back home where she told us to go to bed, that Bear would be there when we woke up and everything would be fine.” I shrugged and tossed a mangled piece of moss into the water. “Bear was there in the morning. So were Grandma and Grandpa. But nothing was fine. Nothing has been fine since.”

Travis didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then, quietly, “Did you get to see her again? Did you have another chance to say good-bye?”

I shook my head. “Grandma said it was a bad idea.”

“What about at the funeral?”

“Closed coffin. Anyone could have been in that thing. Or no one.”

He rocked back a little, his shoulder sliding against mine. He said, “I didn’t get to say good-bye either.”

Neither of us said anything for a few seconds, then Travis’s voice shifted to something dark and secret. He said, “You have to promise you won’t say anything because it’s not technically legal . . .”

I nodded and he continued, his voice still hushed, almost a whisper, “Mom and Dad buried her out in the woods behind our house one night while I was sleeping.”

I shivered even though we were sitting in the sun.

He said, “The next morning when they told me, I got upset about not being there and they told me it was better this way, that it wasn’t the kind of thing a kid my age needed to see. I used to go out there a lot when I was younger and sit under the dogwood tree they planted, but then I started thinking about how she was just right there, rotting beneath me, nothing between us but a few feet of dirt.” He shivered a little too. “I haven’t gone to see her for years. Because she’s not there, anyway, right? Not the part of her that matters.”