Just J (10 page)

“I'd better get going,” he says. “I have to work this after–noon.”

“But we haven't found Moonlight Palace.”

“If we found it today, what would we do tomorrow?”

He has a point.

Chapter Eighteen

W
hen I open the door, I'm welcomed by the smell of berries and I see the row of scented candles climbing the staircase. I hear dull thuds and what sounds like some–thing falling. I follow the sound to the living room.

Aunt Guin's beautiful hair is now all tucked up under a hard hat. She's wearing a pair of denim overalls and a once-white T-shirt, some big ol' work boots and a leather tool belt complete with a hammer as an accessory. For makeup, her whole face, except for around her eyes and mouth, is covered in a thick layer of dirt—as is the rest of her body for that matter. Art is in much the same condition.

“It's renovations—you've got to get a little dirty,” Aunt Guin says with a smile.

“You look ravishing,” Art teases.

“Maybe we'll get the
GQ
cover,” Aunt Guin jokes.

I look up and see the ceiling is no longer solid. It's now a bunch of thick bare wooden beams running across the top of the room, holding up the upstairs floor.

“Stop looking at my bare bottom!” I hear the house say, and I quickly avert my eyes. It talked to me! It was rather snippy, but it talked to me!

Art and Aunt Guin load up a wheelbarrow with the ceiling debris, which covers the floor. I look to the corner of the room, where I spot two pairs of goggles and two face masks on a ladder beside a camera on a tripod.

“What's the camera for?” I ask.

“We're making a renovation show, going to call it
Top to
Bottom
. What do you think?” Aunt Guin asks.

If you're referring to the direction that my life has taken, then it's perfect.

“Shouldn't you have a cameraman?” I ask.

“I'm mainly doing it as a promotional video for myself, but I might try and sell it to tv. Wouldn't that be great?”

“That would be great,” I agree, with all the exuberance of a kid thanking her grandmother for the socks and under–wear at Christmas. “Do I have a place to sleep yet?”

“On the beach.”

“Lovely.” I continue through the house toward the back door so I can go and pretend I have privacy in my imagi–nary room.

“Would you like to help us with the renovations? It'd speed things up.”

“I would,” I yell back. “But there's all those pesky child labor laws and I wouldn't want to be the cause of any law–suits. Thanks for asking though.”

“Why don't we break for lunch?” I hear Art say.

“I talked to your dad again,” Aunt Guin calls to me. “He wants you to phone him.”

Yeah, well there are a few things I want him to do too, and none of them include a phone—unless you get really imaginative.

“You can use Art's cell phone,” she says. “It's on the counter in the kitchen.”

“Fine,” I say, knowing I can't put it off any longer.

“Hello, Billy speaking.”

“Hi, Billy,” I say.

“J!”

“You don't have to yell, Billy.”

“Whatcha' doin'?” he says at the same elevated volume.

“Just talking to you,” I say.

“I'm talking to you too,” he replies, his voice filled with the excitement of being able to talk on the phone.

“It's just a regular conversation, ” I say.

“Yeah,” Billy says. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“Hello,” Dad says. He's taken the phone from Billy—like he always does.

“Hi, Dad.”

“J, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Dad. I'm just calling you back like you asked.”

“Good,” he says, already struggling for words. “I just wanted to be sure that everything was okay.”

“Couldn't be better. The house is beautiful and my life is now complete.”

“Good,” he says. “It's good to hear your voice.”

“From a distance,” I say under my breath.

“Sorry?”

You should be.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Oh,” he says. “Things are good then?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, followed by a long pause.

“How's The…Fanny?” I ask.

“Fine.” Another long pause. “J.”

“Yeah.”

“Uh…be true to yourself.”

“What?”

“You know…be uhh…”

“Yes, Dad, I know, and I'll be sure to look both ways before I cross the road.”

“That's good. And call me…every night.”

“Every night?”

“Well…often.”

“I will.”

“That's good.”

“Lunch is ready,” I tell him. “I gotta go.”

“Okay, then. I'll talk to you again soon.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Jenevieve,” he says urgently, as if he thinks I've already hung up, and if he calls out I'll somehow hear him and we'll reconnect.

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Umm…be sure to brush.”

“I will, Dad.” I give him a few seconds, just in case he's thought of any other pearls of wisdom to offer.

“Bye,” I finally say.

“Bye,” he replies.

It'd be funny if it weren't so painful.

We have burgers for lunch. Soy burgers or, as I like to call them,
joy
burgers, 'cause they're just so darn much fun!

“You need a well-balanced diet,” Aunt Guin says. “And soy is awfully good for you.”

I completely agree with the awful part.

After lunch, Aunt Guin asks again, “You sure you don't want to help? I think you might like it.”

Oh yeah, looks like a blast.

“What would I have to do?” I ask, to humor her.

“Hit things.”

I'm listening, but that's all she says.

“You just want me to hit things?”

“Yep.”

“All right.”

And that's what I do. I put on a pair of jeans, a jacket, a pair of heavy work boots, thick gloves, a mask, safety gog–gles and a hard hat—an outfit that reminds me of an ant's exoskeleton (I was right about calling it a site). Art hands me a heavy steel bar with a hook on the end. Then he points to the wall.

“Go to town,” he says as he starts to hit the wall with a similar bar.

That should be easy, I think as I follow his lead.

I hit it and hit it as bits of plaster and wood go every–where. Out of the corner of my eye I see that Art has stopped hitting and gone back to helping Aunt Guin clean up. Occasionally he cleans the lens of the camera, but I pay little attention. I just keep hitting and hitting and thinking of everything—Mom's cancer, Dad's uselessness, Billy's obliviousness, the doctors, the nurses, the janitor and Fanny. I think a lot about Fanny.

I don't take a break. I don't even take the water that Art offers me. I just keep hitting. When I'm done, the ver–tical wall beams are as bare as the horizontal ceiling ones. “Cover me, cover me!” the beams cry out. “This is just so humiliating.”

And I smile.

I walk outside for some fresh air and I keep walking, increasing my pace as I cross the road, and then my walk turns to a run, the heavy boots losing their weight as I run through the adjacent wheat field.

I don't stop as much as collapse. My arms are sore, my hands tingle, but I feel great. I inhale deep and long, enjoying all the scents of summer in the country—sweet, light and pure. Getting back on my feet, I turn around to look at the house.

The sun is hiding behind it like a child playing peek-a-boo—thinking that since it can't see me, I can't see it. I start to realize how long I was swinging that bar and why my arms are ready to fall off.

The sun's rays backlight the disheveled home, taking away many of its flaws by highlighting the beauty of its frame, its proud structure. It was once the pride of the block—if you call it a block out here. I can see it as it once was and, like Aunt Guin, I can see what it could be.

But as I walk back, the closer I get to the house, the more the flaws emerge. Everything is beautiful if you don't get close to it. Maybe that's why God doesn't interfere; he's not close enough to us to see that anything's wrong. Or maybe he sees the perfection and knows that it's up to us to maintain or destroy it. I wish I knew. Oh, how I wish I knew.

Chapter Nineteen

C
hing ching. Ching ching
. Last night I had a dreamless sleep. I didn't get to enjoy the campfire or the stars. I had my dinner, closed my eyes, and now—
Ching ching.
Ching ching
—this annoying noise—
Ching ching. Ching
ching
—awakens me.

“Stop!” I demand.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” I hear a familiar voice and open one eye a sliver to see Connor, high above me. “You're looking especially cute today,” he says.

The statement is embarrassingly forward. The kiss is obviously not forgotten. I'm about to set him straight when I see that his expression lacks any seriousness, and I recall that I didn't even clean up before going to bed.

The morning dew, which I slept through, probably turned the thick layer of plaster dust and grime into mud, and the sun dried it again. I can't even imagine what I look like, but judging by his wide grin, I can imagine it's quite amusing—to him anyway.

“Ha, ha!” is the extent of my wit first thing in the morning. I close my eyes, hoping that if I can't see him, he can't see me.

“You look like you've been mud wrestling.”

“Hee, hee.” I'm getting sharper.

“It's kinda hot.”

“Shut up!” I yell and jump to my feet, ready to
give 'em
what for
—as Aunt Milly would say—when I see the source of the
ching ching
: a little silver bell that's attached to the handlebars of an old, but seemingly functional, blue three-speed woman's bicycle.

“It's for you,” he informs me.

“You bought it for me?”

“No,” he says, leaving out the
get over yourself
part of the sentence. “It's my mom's, but she doesn't use it any–more.”

“Why not?”

“She's too fat.”

“That's not nice.”

“No, it's not nice at all,” he says. “But all she eats are fries and hot dogs and all she drinks is pop, so it's the nat–ural outcome.”

The sentiment is loving, even though the comment is kind of cruel.

“So do you want to go for a ride?” he asks, indicating a boy's bike, equally beaten up.

“I better check with my aunt.”

“It's okay,” says a voice from the back porch, and I look over to see Aunt Guin through the screen, wearing a large grin.

She's been watching the whole time, I'm sure.

Art steps out of the house, and he's smiling too—I hate that.

I give them an exaggerated mock smile in return and go to grab the bike, but my arms feel like weights are tied to them.

It takes all I've got to grab the handlebars and push the bike out of the sand.

“Don't be too late,” Aunt Guin says, her smile widening.

“I have to work at one o'clock, so we'll be back before then,” Connor informs her.

I try to ignore them all.

I throw a change of clothes in a bag and we hit the road, heading to a different part of the beach, having decided that looking in the woods for a dance hall buried by sand is not our best course of action. From now on, we'll stick to the dunes.

When we arrive at the park, we can't get all the way to the dunes with our bikes, so we stuff them in between a couple of trees.

“Won't they get stolen?” I ask.

“Out here?” Connor says. “Nah.” Then, looking at the condition of the bikes, he adds, “Who'd want them?”

We both pick a good walking stick—after checking several for the right combination of height, weight and strength—and start making our way to the beach.

Standing at the top of one of the dunes, I make Connor go to the bottom while I turn one of the bushes into a change room. I get out of the filthy clothes—some of which are sticking to me after the bike ride—and slip into my bathing suit. Connor occasionally looks up and over his shoulder, trying to sneak a peek. I can see him, but I know by his look of disappointment that he can't see me.

I run down the dune past Connor, dropping my bag of clothes and walking stick before diving into the water. I stay under, scrubbing my face to try and get as much guck off it as possible. I emerge long enough to see Connor kicking his shoes off. I go back under and start to work on my hair. I can feel bits and pieces of the nasty living room wall clinging to my scalp. I wish I'd brought Aunt Guin's shampoo with me. I would have asked, but I wanted to get away from the Cheshire cats as quickly as possible.

I come up again. Connor's face is inches from mine. I kick away from him.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I thought you might be drowning.”

“I'm not!”

“All right,” he says, backing away.

I may have been a bit harsh, but I don't apologize. I can feel seaweed against the bottoms of my feet; I don't mind it this time. I even use it to try and get the dirt out from between my toes.

“Only for a microsecond.”

“What?” Connor asks.

“Only for a microsecond. It was something my aunt said. The past is gone, the future doesn't exist. All that's real is the moment, which lasts only for a microsecond. You can do anything for a microsecond,” I say, doing my best Aunt Guin impersonation.

“‘The distinction between past, present and future is a stubbornly persistent illusion,'” Connor says.

“What?” I ask.

“Einstein said that.”

“You read Einstein? You quote Einstein?” I say, more than a little surprised.