Skies Like These (16 page)

He shoved his fists into the pockets of his brown bathrobe. “Not much beyond a generation or two.”

“What about that box of journals and pictures you got when your dad passed on?” Mrs. Parker said. “Is there much information there?”

“Might be,” he said.

“Do you have the papers Roy sent for?” Jade asked.

“I have most of them; why?”

“Well, I was out by the creek talking to Astro.” She paused a moment, understanding the unusual nature of what she had said. The Parkers were not fazed in the least.

“Go on,” Mr. Parker said.

“And I said something about how the real world is never as good as what our imagination can come up with and he did the weirdest thing. He looked right at me and shook his head, like he was disagreeing with me.”

Mr. Parker let out a small laugh. “Crazy dog.”

“I didn't think much of it at the time,” Jade went on, “but later, when Aunt Elise and I were listening to the stars…” She paused. Still, again, the Parkers seemed to accept what she said without hesitation. “I thought, what if Astro's right? What if Roy's real family line could be as interesting as the one he's imagined all these years?”

“I don't think any old pictures I might be able to dig up will compare to Butch Cassidy,” Mr. Parker said. “He's an American legend!”

“You might be surprised,” Jade said. “My dad tells this story about how his distant great-uncle fought right alongside Ulysses S. Grant in the Civil War and later served under his presidency.”

“Is that so?”

“He even has a Medal of Honor this guy supposedly earned. What I'm saying is there could be all sorts of stories in your own family history. Maybe teaching Roy more about who he
is
will stop him from being so sad about who he
isn't
.”

Mrs. Parker fluttered a hand over her mouth. “That's an exceptional idea!”

*   *   *

Mr. Parker went into his work shed, stepped past his glassblowing equipment, and went to a cardboard box shoved in the corner. “I've never even looked in here,” he said, pulling out a stack of pictures.

“I did,” Mrs. Parker said. “When it first came. It's all from your father's side.”

“The Parker line,” Jade said, knowing it was perfect for her plan. “He may not be related to the famous Roy Parker, but maybe we can show him some other Parkers who were just as great.”

All three sat around the box, taking one piece of paper out at a time. They looked at pictures and read the lines printed on the back:
Horace at Lake Erie
or
Ginny with the cat.

It didn't look promising.

They studied old letters and newspaper clippings and tried to sort the information into family-group piles. From what Jade could see, there were generations of records there. Years and years of people's lives reduced to a mess of paper, scattered across the workshop floor. She wondered if that was all she would be someday: a picture at the bottom of a cardboard box.

“Did you know any of these people?” she asked, organizing some black-and-white photos by dates.

“A few,” Mr. Parker said. “I knew my grandparents of course, but they never talked much of my great-grandparents. I think my great-grandfather worked for the railroad. That's about all I knew of him.”

Jade got excited for a second. “Was he ever working on a train that got robbed by the Wild Bunch?” The Wild Bunch, Roy had repeatedly told her, was the name of Butch Cassidy's gang.

“I think he spent more time building the rails than riding them,” Mr. Parker said.

“Oh.”

They went back to reading letters and sorting piles. Then Mr. Parker stood up. “There's nothing here,” he said. “Just regular people living regular lives.” He dropped a brown leather journal back into the box and went inside.

Mrs. Parker forced a smile. “Good folks,” she said. “But no Medals of Honor in the Parker line. Thanks for trying, Jade. It was a nice thought.”

“Do you mind if I stay longer?” Jade asked.

Mrs. Parker let out a quiet groan as she stood up. “I'm afraid it's more pictures of Horace at the lake or Ginny with the cat, but you're welcome to keep looking.”

“Thanks.”

Mrs. Parker went inside, leaving Jade alone. She picked up a photograph of a young boy on a tricycle and tried to imagine what life for him might have been like. He wore red shorts, suspenders, and a miniature sailor's hat. She flipped the picture over:
William, 1976
. It was Roy's dad. Jade set the picture aside and pulled out another, this one black-and-white and of a woman standing by a Cadillac. She flipped it over:
Rita's new ride, 1953
.

Then she pulled that brown leather journal out of the box. It belonged to someone named George J. Parker and the dates were all from the '20s and '30s:

June 26, 1924

Began construction on the Detroit Institute of Arts (DIA) today. Lucky to have the work, though I'd prefer to have my paintings featured inside instead of just laying the bricks. Maybe someday.

Another Parker artist, Jade thought. She flipped ahead in the book and read a different page:

August 2, 1934

Lulu made soup. It was delicious.

Jade shut the journal. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Parker were right. These records were about good, hardworking people but there was nothing special about any of them. At least, nothing that would pull Roy out of his sorrow. She stacked the photos into the box and began to shove it back into the corner, but couldn't bring herself to do it. Something about that seemed disrespectful to those people. Like they didn't matter. Instead, she lifted the box onto Mr. Parker's workbench.

“I guess that's what I get for listening to a dog,” she said.

A voice cut in behind her. “Was it Lobo or Yaz?”

Roy.

“You feeling better?”

He lifted a shoulder. “So what did the dog say?”

Jade glanced back to the box. “Nothing.”

“That's because dogs don't actually talk.” He whirled a finger at his temple.

Jade knew he was teasing and was happy he felt good enough to make fun.

Roy pulled a pair of orange tennis shoes from a pile of shoes by the door, sat down, and started working them onto his feet.

“No cowboy boots?”

“Someone recently told me I have to get over that.”

“What I said,” Jade clarified, “is that you have to get over feeling sorry for yourself and learn to be okay with the truth.”

Roy jerked his head up. Everything about his face looked tired and worn down. His eyes were deep sunken pits with dark lines smeared underneath. “Maybe it's time we both start living our truths. You quit writing papers about summer adventures you've never had and I'll come to terms with the fact that I'm nobody.”

“Did Aunt Elise tell you about my binder?”

“I have my ways.”

“Fine. So I made up a couple of stories. Who cares? But you're wrong about being nobody.”

“No I'm not. I even have the paperwork to prove it.” He went back to tying his shoes.

Jade was out of patience. “I wonder why the people at Genealogy.com didn't stamp a red A for average on your pedigree chart. Or even better, a big N for nitwit.” She didn't wait for Roy to answer. She left him there in his dad's workshop and went home.

 

33

Everyone was gearing up for Wellington's Juniper Festival, just two days away. People put twinkle lights in their trees and fixed mini Wyoming state flags to their car antennas. The flag was blue with red trim and a big white buffalo in the middle. Jade couldn't look at it without remembering Aunt Elise's stew and feeling guilty.

“How big are the fireworks?” Jade asked her aunt as they wrapped streamers around the dog statue and threaded them through the chain-link fence at the end of Aunt Elise's driveway.

“The ones we'll set off here or the ones at the festival?”

Jade stopped threading. “Wyoming allows private fireworks?”

“Sure.”

“Even after the Fourth of July?”

Realization came into Aunt Elise's eyes. “Wyoming allows them year-round. I forgot how restrictive Philly is when it comes to fireworks. You've probably not had the chance to have anything other than sparklers.” She was overflowing with excitement. “Let's go right now. There are two stands out on the county line. You can have your pick! We'll get fountains and those neat twisty things…” She was speedily threading the last bits of streamers through the fence. “And the spinning flowers that change colors as they shoot across the pavement. Those are my favorite.” Her long, thin eyebrows wiggled from under her bangs. “Let your old auntie take care of everything. Your only job is to relax and have a good time. No worrying allowed.”

More than anything in that moment, Jade wanted to let go of the heaviness she had been feeling and have a freewheeling fireworks extravaganza. “Okay,” she said. “But only if we get some of those strobes that flash superbright.”

*   *   *

Much to Jade's surprise, Astro loved fireworks. He sat down next to her folding camp chair and watched each fantastic spray of light with intense eagerness. It was as if he was trying to figure out how so much power came from such a small package. He'd watch the display, shake his head, and slap his tongue across his lips in disbelief. Then he'd look to Aunt Elise as if to say,
Do it again!

The other dogs weren't as interested. They huddled down in their houses, bothered by the loud
pops
and
snaps
Jade and her aunt were setting off at the end of the drive. All except Genghis Khan, that is. He sat on the porch with an air of disinterest, refusing to be sent running.

Jade looked up into the night, mesmerized by how the spray of firework lights seemed to mingle with the low-hanging stars, as if they were partners coming together in a dance. It was extraordinary.

“I gave Brenda and William a call, but they didn't feel right coming without Roy.” Aunt Elise was lining up three pillar fireworks for another one of her triple-threat displays.

“And he's still pouting?”

Aunt Elise lit the wicks with her punk and stepped back quickly. One, two, three … purple and white sparks shot up into the night, whizzing and popping. “There comes a time in everyone's life when they have to decide if they're going to accept themselves as they are or keep wishing they were someone else.” She sat down in the chair next to Jade. “Roy's time came sooner than most, is all.”

Jade pulled three more pillar fireworks from the pile off to the side. She removed the finished cylinders and stacked the new ones. “Did you have that time?”

“Sure I did.” Aunt Elise tilted her head back and reached for some long-lost memory. “I graduated from law school at the top of my class and made partner at one of the largest firms in Philly in less than three years.”

“That's good, right?”

“It was everything I wanted. I was in the city of my dreams, making a good living, but after a while I started to realize I didn't have much of a life. The hours were horrendous and the stress was robbing me of even the smallest measure of peace. Well, one morning, I was going through some old pictures and came across one of myself from years before. Only, it looked like someone else—someone happy. More than anything, I wanted to be that person again.” Aunt Elise closed her eyes, lingering over faded thoughts. “That's about the time a friend invited me out to Wyoming for a much-needed vacation. I traded the corporate ladder for the one that goes up to my roof and, for me, it was the right choice. I couldn't keep trying to be something I wasn't.”

“But Roy
is
a cowboy,” Jade said. “Through and through. Why can't he see he doesn't need any paperwork to prove it?”

Aunt Elise started gathering bits of firework trash from the driveway, shoving it into a bag. “This isn't about Roy finding the cowboy inside, Jade. It's about him finding the hero inside. He loves Butch Cassidy for all those Robin Hood stories, not for his belt buckles and boots. Heck, no one in Wyoming needs an excuse to wear those things. They're commonplace. Roy clung to them for what they symbolized. For what he hoped they would help him become.” Then she added, “That's a lot to lose.”

Jade knew her aunt was right. It was the whole reason she had spent two hours sifting through that box of genealogy paperwork in the Parkers' workshop—she was trying to find a real hero Roy could cling to.

Instead, she had only found pictures of cats and journal entries about good soup.

 

34

On Saturday, Jade and her aunt filled their pockets with quarters for the rides, slathered on sunscreen, and walked over to Wellington's Juniper Festival. Cotton-candy and snow-cone vendors were on every corner. Men walked around carrying giant sticks with peanut bags and those foam Cat in the Hat hats dangling from nails.

“Let's load up on beads now, before they're sold out,” Aunt Elise said, waving down a salesman. “I love wearing these beaded necklaces. Then we'll hit the Pirate Coaster.” It was like she was eight years old and at her first festival.

“When is the poetry reading?” Jade asked.

Aunt Elise paid the vendor ten dollars for ten plastic beaded necklaces and slid half of them around her neck and the other half around Jade's neck. They were in the state's colors—red, white, and blue. “In about forty minutes. I'm so excited for Brenda!”

Roy's mom had finished the poem, even though Roy wasn't interested in helping. Jade knew she had done it so everyone wouldn't be disappointed, but Jade doubted the poem would be what it needed to be. She kept thinking about what Sandy from the YMCA had said—how people took the contest seriously and how a person couldn't fake love for those images. Could Roy's mom write about lonely wolves and wide-open skies?