Dana's Valley (2 page)

I had begun kindergarten before anyone knew of Corey's coming, and I think Mom had been somewhat at loose ends and lonely at home. Now she claimed Corey was her “bonus baby.” She often said she was so blessed to have another little person to treasure and discover. And none of us had felt any the less loved. After all, he was our baby too. If Mom wanted to spend her days delighting in the baby's warmth and smell and love, we were glad simply to share as much of the experience as our school schedules would allow.

I've heard people say that Mom is a bubbly, upbeat person by nature. I never really thought about it much—but even I was aware that the new baby seemed to bring out a renewed enthusiasm in her. She laughed a lot, teased more, and even drew Daddy, with his more serious-minded nature, into the silliness that we all shared as we enjoyed Corey. He soon became our little playmate, and with his energy and wide-eyed wonder at the world, he made a good one. In fact, Corey added new life and enjoyment to the entire household. I guess we all adored him. And, of course, he knew nearly from the start that he was the center of attention.

Dana and I were still dressing when Mom's voice called again, in singsong fashion, “Breakfast. Everyone up?”

Dana answered for us. “Coming” was all she said as she pulled on some new cream-colored pants and a matching sweater. I had settled for my favorite jeans with a comfy knit top.

“Brett? Are you up?”

We heard a faint mumble from behind Brett's closed door across the hall. His words couldn't be understood, but it usually took him a little while to get his motor running. That was Mom's description of Brett in the morning.

We left our room just as Brett struggled out of his door, still tucking in his shirt. It was easy to tell he hadn't been up for long. I thought for one zany moment that Dana might cross over and give him a hand with the tucking, but instead she just smiled and said good-morning. Brett mumbled again.

His hair was all rumpled, his eyes still looked half closed, and he was even yawning. He looked disheveled and funny, as though longing to turn around and bolt for his bed. I wanted to giggle again.

Corey was already downstairs. I could hear him chatting but didn't know if it was Mom or Daddy whom he was following around, spouting off about whatever it was that had captured his four-year-old curiosity and had him so excited this time. Corey always sounded excited. It was probably this general gusto that drew Corey out of bed before any of the rest of us on most mornings—even before Mom and Daddy. But he liked company, so he usually wasn't alone for long. He made sure of that.

He and Brett shared a room. But Brett, a teenager, liked to sleep as long as possible and wasn't very good company in the mornings. Corey had long since accepted that fact, so he would leave their room and look for someone else. Sometimes, if our folks were unresponsive, he would come to our room. He'd beg for a story or try to talk us into a game. Dana was very patient. I wasn't much more excited than Brett about mornings. But I really didn't mind too much when Coreyinterrupted my sleep. He was still pretty cute, and he always made us laugh at the funny things he said.

When we were all assembled around the breakfast table and Brett, whose turn it was to pray, had wakened enough to say a sensible grace, the morning seemed to pick up speed. Mom sat for only a moment or two before popping up again to get something she'd forgotten. Daddy checked homework assignments, spending the usual extra time with Brett. I listened, feeling almost dizzy hearing the two of them talk about certain things that Brett was required to learn in school. It made me appreciate the fact that I was still in fifth grade. My teachers said I was a good student—and maybe I was. Anyway, most of the assignments were easy for me.

“Hey, Sissy, see what I can do.” Corey was perfecting a balancing act with his spoon teetering on the edge of his orange juice glass. He tried every morning, but it usually ended with another wet spot on the table.

“Honey, just eat, please.” Mom was amazingly patient. There wasn't even an edge to her voice. Corey put the spoon down beside his plate and grinned in response.

“Daddy, my music teacher says I'll need a new book soon,” Dana was saying. “I can buy one from her, or we can go down to the music store ourselves. Can we go down to the store, please? I want to look at other books too.” I was sure Dana already knew what the answer would be. Daddy always carefully budgeted for our music lessons, as with every family expenditure, and he wasn't likely to spend more on a whim of Dana's. But I waited for his response anyway. If he said yes, it might mean that this was an opportune moment to ask again about new tennis shoes.

He looked up, winked across the table at Mom, then smiled toward Dana. “You've almost finished another book? I'm proud of you. You're working very hard. But I think we'd better wait on shopping for extra books right now. You've got a birthday coming up, remember?”

Dana smiled back, not quite concealing her disappointment.

“And what about you, Erin?” Daddy went on. “Are you ready for a new book too?”

Suddenly I was sorry I had taken an interest in their conversation. I'd already finished eating and easily could have been excused from the table and seated at the piano by now if I hadn't hung back to see how Daddy would answer Dana.

“No, not yet.” I dipped my head just a bit so he couldn't read my eyes. The fact was, I was only about halfway through my book, and I hadn't done too great a job on the first half either. I didn't care much for piano.

“Maybe if you didn't sit and read those mystery stories while you're practicing …” Brett let the sentence dangle accusingly and slid out from behind the table to head for the corner trash bin. It was his job to gather the garbage for the weekly collection.

Mom looked up at me and frowned. “Oh, Erin, you're not trying to read again while you're practicing, are you? I thought we agreed that you weren't going to do that anymore.”

I would've liked to stick out my tongue at Brett, but he had his back to me. Anyway, there was a good chance I would be reprimanded for that too, and both parents were already frowning at me. Instead, I scowled in Brett's direction and turned back to face Mom. “I only did it once since you told me to stop—yesterday was the only time—and that was because I wanted to know how the chapter ended before school. It was only a couple pages, anyway. Marcy always asks me how far I got, and I never get as much time to read as she does. I hate it when she's always ahead.”

Daddy didn't seem impressed. “Well, Erin, don't let it happen again—no matter how far ahead Marcy gets. We're paying for those lessons, and we want you to be serious about practicing. If I see you doing it again, there
will
be consequences. And I'll be checking up on you. Understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I dragged myself to the piano stool and managed to make my fingers stumble through the scales and simple songs. My hands always felt stiff and resisting, much better suited to holding a basketball or swinging a bat. Dana, though having taken piano only one year longer than I, could already play complicated pieces that truly sounded like music. I wasn't convinced I would ever be able to achieve that kind of skill. But if Daddy said to practice, I would practice. I adored my father. I hated to disappoint him, even if at times I did feel his discipline was a bit rigid and he hadn't taken quite enough time to let me properly explain my point of view about a situation.

Once all of the morning routine was complete, the walk to the corner to catch the school bus was almost pleasant. Brett always dashed on ahead. I guess by the time we were sent out the door, Brett had finally gotten his motor running—or something—for he was able to sprint down the street, his gangly long legs making fast work of the concrete sidewalk. If he got to the bus stop a little early, he had time to shoot a few baskets in Sanders' driveway while he waited.

Dana and I followed more slowly. We always joined up with Marcy and her sister Carli two doors down from our house. We'd been walking to catch the bus together ever since we'd moved to our cozy little house on Maple Street back when I was in first grade.

Everyone said our community was a jumping-off spot for families on the way up. “Starter Homes” was how the real estate companies had described the area, so there seemed to be ample reason for families to move in and then to move on, to a fancier, upscale suburb. I was glad my own family had chosen to settle. I liked the way the town kind of tucked itself in between the hills. It was small enough to feel cozy and friendly, but large enough so we could go to a movie once in a while and out to McDonald's afterward. I liked our neighborhood. Our friends. Our church. Even our school, though I didn't often admit that fact publicly. I saw no reason to move on—anywhere—and felt relieved when Daddy seemed quick to agree. He would quote the Bible verse about how it was better to eat a bowl of vegetables where there was peace than a fatted calf with strife. According to his way of thinking, it was more important to work on building a happy home than a particularly prosperous or impressive-looking one. I knew from overhearing a few conversations that he'd had opportunities to relocate for a bet~ter job, but he'd chosen to stay put, even though neighbors, coming and going, often boasted about the advances and promotions they were receiving.

As I grew older, on more than one occasion I had been struck by how difficult Daddy's approach to life seemed to be for our grandpa Walsh to understand. I enjoyed eavesdropping on adults' conversations and tried to gather as much information as I could. It seemed to me that Grandpa, who owned a business or two of his own, placed a great deal of value on “getting ahead.” That explained why he often pressed Daddy to be more like him, like a Walsh—independent, self-motivated, and successful. Every time they would visit, Grandpa Walsh seemed to have some new business opportunity for Daddy. But Daddy would just smile and say “no, thank you” in a variety of ways until Grandpa finally had to give up again.

Over the years I had managed to piece together bits of the Walsh family history. They had come from Ireland many years ago, poor and needy, yet with a great deal of independence and family pride. Grandpa Walsh always stressed
that
fact when he talked of the family roots, as though independence and pride were two very important characteristics. He never let the story stop there but always went on to tell how, since then, most Walshes had owned their own businesses and through hard work and smart planning had managed to attain success.

Daddy's older brother, my uncle Patrick, had opened his own law office and was very successful, by our grandfather's standard. He lived in Chicago with Auntie Lynn and their three boys. But we didn't see them much.

There had been another brother too. Uncle Eric had died on a military training exercise. Since Grandpa Walsh had not wanted him to join the military in the first place, this had been particularly difficult for the family. I felt I could understand how much Grandma still missed their son, and I shared with her a special affection for the picture of Uncle Eric that she kept on a little shelf beside her kitchen sink. A variety of individual and family pictures was scattered through the house, but this was the only one in which Uncle Eric was proudly poised in full uniform. For some reason, as I studied his face, I became convinced that he was thinking about Grandma at just the time the picture was taken. I'm not sure why I was so certain, but I was, just the same. I tried to ask Grandma about it one time, and I think she was pretty sure too.

Though I could never quite understand why, that picture also brought some discord to the family. Grandpa seemed to hate it. I had seen him scowl at it over Grandma's shoulder when he thought no one else was around. And I had heard him mutter under his breath in a conversation with a neighbor, “Not even in combat, but by a stupid error on someone's part.” That was the only time I had heard Grandpa speak of it. But it was not the only time I'd seen anger flare in his eyes at the mention of the loss of his middle son.

Apparently, though, as much as he resented the reminder of Uncle Eric in uniform, he had not demanded that Grandma remove the picture. Or if he had, she had not complied. For each time we visited their home, I stole back to the kitchen to see if Uncle Eric was still there, and every time he was right where he belonged on the little shelf. Uncle Eric—still young. Still looking proud.

For my part, I thought Uncle Eric very handsome and wished with all my heart I could have known him. When I was younger, I even secretly dreamed that the man I would someday marry would look just like him. Maybe he would wear a sharp-looking uniform and have his hair clipped just so. He might even have a dimple like Uncle Eric's. His dimple hardly showed in the uniformed picture because of the formal pose, yet his green eyes had not been able to hide their twinkle in a mischievous little-boy fashion.

I liked the fact that Uncle Eric's eyes were like Daddy's. I often wished it had been me, instead of Dana, who had taken after his side of the family. Dana had been blessed with the musical talent, the thick russet hair, and the beautiful hazely green eyes from the Walsh side. Instead, I had gotten the plain, straight blond hair from Mother's family. And dark eyes. Dark eyes were not as … as alive and riveting as Daddy's greenish ones. Though I admit I was always a little bit pleased when folks pointed out that I was going to be tall like my mother. Tall and willowy. That was what I had heard Daddy say. He made it sound as though being tall and willowy was something to be desired. The thought always made me stand just a little bit straighter.

Dana was on the short side for her age. A little skinny too, I guess. Though Mom always called it petite. I had already passed her in height. Green eyes aside, I took some consolation in that fact.