The Birthday Room (12 page)

“I guess. But we're solving one.”

“True.”

Ben realized how thirsty he was and how dirty they had both become. His hands and fingernails were filthy, his pants smudged. Lynnie's knees were so darkened and mottled from kneeling they looked like two small, grimy faces with flattened features. A dusty half moon marked the middle of her shiny forehead. “Do you want to get something to drink, or keep working?” he asked.

“Keep working,” said Lynnie, springing up and clapping her hands. “We don't have too much left to do.”

The house was rising. From jumbled heaps of branches, they were making order, building something useful and fine. The further the house progressed, the more delight Ben took in its creation, and the less guilt he felt concerning Kale. It's beautiful, he thought. But he didn't want to jinx it by saying so. He wondered if Lynnie was thinking the exact same thing. By the time they had fashioned a skeletal roof, he couldn't contain himself any longer. He stood back and said, “This is so cool!”

“It's beautiful!” said Lynnie.

“Outstanding!” said Ben.

Lynnie: “Magnificent!”

Each continued to try to outdo the other with bigger and better adjectives (“Incredible!” “Stupendous!” “Breathtakingly marvelous!”) while, in a final burst of energy, they finished the roof and straightened the doorway and patched holes and embedded two old bricks they found into the ground to serve as a threshold.

And then they stood looking at their creation for a long time.

“Are we done?” asked Lynnie.

“I think so,” was Ben's measured response.

“Kale and Elka will be so happy,” said Lynnie. “They probably won't want to give it up, they'll like it so much.”

“Well,” said Ben, “the baby won't be able to use it for a couple of years anyway.”

“I bet my grandpa will like it, too,” Lynnie remarked. “And Grandma. It commemorates the spot, even though the tree's gone.”

The sun cut right through the area where Lynnie was standing, a swath of ginger-colored light. She seemed different to Ben all of a sudden—three-dimensional—as if he were seeing her for the first time. Ben grabbed her hand and pulled her inside the house. She squeezed his hand back, stronger than he expected, and he felt shy. They sat down, legs crossed, facing each other.

“I can't believe we actually made this,” said Lynnie.

“I know.”

Lynnie had discovered some stray aluminum can tabs hidden among the branches. She had tied them to the roof so they hung down into the interior of the hut. She blew at one, and it twirled and swayed. “Finally I feel better about Kale,” she said.

“Me, too,” said Ben. He struck one of the tabs lightly with his finger.

Lynnie watched him, watched the quick sharp motion of his finger; watched the path of the silver tab intersect a thin shaft of sunlight, watched the tab sparkle. “Hey,” she said, “tomorrow, let's hang all the tabs down from the roof, and let's hang what's left of the paper chains all around on the outside. They'll be the finishing touches.”

“Good idea,” said Ben.

“Want to have dinner at my house?” asked Lynnie. “My dad eats really late, so there's always food around.”

“Sure,” said Ben.

“Good.”

“I go home the day after tomorrow,” Ben said, thinking aloud.

“Don't remind me,” said Lynnie. “Let's not even talk about it.”

“Let's not even talk at all for a minute,” said Ben. He yawned. He felt bone-weary, but exhilarated, too.

He lay down, and Lynnie did the same. They were side by side, on their backs, inches apart, staring up at the pieces of the softening sky through the latticework of the roof. The tabs shivered in a breeze, then stilled like raindrops frozen in midair on their descent. The smell was loamy and thick and almost sweet.

After several minutes had passed, Lynnie said, “This is like nowhere I've ever been before.”

Ben agreed. “Nowhere.”

Part Five

HOME

 

13

T
HE LAST DAY
. It was early and cool, and the grass in the orchard was jewel-like on account of the dew when Ben and Lynnie met at the little house. Ben had spotted Lynnie, off to the side, coming over a knoll with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. He figured that she had transferred the paper chains and silver tabs from the old metal cooler to the bag, but he could tell that the bag had too much heft for things so light. She had to have been carrying something in addition to the decorations.

“Hey, what do you have in there?” Ben called, waving.

“You'll see,” Lynnie called back. “And good morning.”

At the doorway of the house, Lynnie unzipped the bag to reveal the paper chains, the tabs, and breakfast—two apples, two peaches, two doughnuts wrapped in a cloth napkin, and a big thermos bottle of hot chocolate and two plastic mugs.

“Did you eat already?” Lynnie asked. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, still sleepy.

“No. This is great.”

They ate the doughnuts and drank the hot chocolate inside the house, saving the fruit for later. Both were very quiet. Steam curled upward from their mugs, veiling their features and disappearing above their heads.

“You still like it, don't you?” Ben asked, meaning the house. He sipped his chocolate, looking at Lynnie over the rim of his mug.

“Oh, yeah,” said Lynnie. “Of course. I'm just sad today. You know.” She glanced at her watch. “By this time tomorrow, you'll be on an airplane.”

Ben nodded. He would be flying home the next morning on a six o'clock flight. “I guess we'd better get moving. We've got a lot of tabs to tie on.”

It took much longer than either had expected, but the effect was amazing. Like a collection of stars or a system of planets, hundreds of tabs hung down from the roof on pieces of yarn that varied in length. Back outside, they repaired some of the paper chains and laced them through branches and draped them over knobs and craggy protrusions of bark. The arrangement of scalloped rows looked like bright icing on a cake.

“Good?” said Ben, lifting his eyebrows and sweeping his arms through the air as if he were presenting a prize on a game show.

“Great,” said Lynnie. She applauded silently with just the tips of her fingers. “It
was
a house. Now it's a home.”

The sky had changed from orchid to blue. The sun and the temperature were rising.

“Let's get Kale and Elka,” said Ben.

Lynnie replaced the mugs and the thermos bottle in the duffel bag and moved it aside. “Are you worried?” she asked.

“You mean about Kale?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe a little,” Ben admitted. “But he
has
to love it.”

“He has to,” repeated Lynnie. She clamped her mouth shut in a determined way, and they were off.

Late the previous night, while Ben was eating dinner at Lynnie's—the two of them alone at the kitchen table—they had come up with a plan. Their idea was to bring Kale to the little house by having him ride in Lynnie's grandmother's garden cart. Lynnie had explained the plan, first to her father and then to her mother, as well as she could without ruining the secret.

“That should be all right,” Lynnie's father had said. “But check with Mom.”

“Just there and back,” Lynnie's mother had said. “And either your father or I will help you get him ready.”

It was Lynnie's mother who helped. She packed Kale into the cart as if she were packing a porcelain vase into a box to be mailed across the country. Blankets, pillows, and an afghan held him in place. “Listen to Lynnie and Ben,” she told Kale. “No goofing around,” she said, her finger under his chin, tilting his head so their eyes connected. “And stay put.”

“We don't need another tragedy,” Lynnie whispered.

“You already scared us out of our whips once,” Elka chirped. She beamed at her brother.

“Ready or not, here we go,” said Ben. He and Lynnie pulled the cart together, mindful of holes and bumps and rocks, mindful of how fast they were going.

“You're like Colin in
The Secret Garden
,” Lynnie said over her shoulder to Kale, “when Mary and Dickon take him to see the garden in his wheelchair.”

“It's a
garden?
” asked Kale, obviously disappointed at the prospect.

“Not a garden,” Ben told him. “You'll never guess what it is.”

“And don't try,” said Lynnie. “Just let it be a surprise.”

“I love surprises,” said Elka. She was wearing her fake casts again. She would imitate the position of Kale's arm and limp along dramatically until she'd fall behind. Then she'd run to catch up and hobble once more. Sometimes she forgot which leg it was she was supposed to be favoring, and had to stop and think.

Occasionally Ben turned to check on Kale. In addition to his casts and stitches, his unkempt hair—stiff and peaked like meringue—contributed to his pitiful appearance, and yet there was something about the carriage of his head and the fact that he was being pulled in the cart that struck Ben as kingly.

When they were getting close, Lynnie stopped. “Remember that Grandpa chopped the tree down. It looks kind of shocking without it,” she warned.

“Grandpa said he was sorry,” Elka told Ben.

“I don't get it,” Kale said. “Are we going to the tree or to the surprise?”

Lynnie and Ben exchanged a glance. Lynnie considered. “Well, it's sort of the same thing. I mean, we're going to see the surprise, but the tree—what's left of the tree—is . . . Oh, just wait and see.”

Kale seemed vaguely dissatisfied with her answer.

Ben said, “I know, why don't you two close your eyes, and keep them closed until we tell you to open them?” He told Elka, “I'll carry you.” And he asked Lynnie, “Can you handle the cart alone?”

Lynnie nodded. She shook her finger at her siblings. “No peeking.”

Elka burrowed into Ben's neck. “Now, even if I peek, I can't see,” she said against his skin.

Ben was taken aback by how light Elka was. Her silky hair was the color of lemonade, even more pale than Lynnie's, and smelled hot from the sun. She fidgeted in his arms like a puppy.

They got closer. Ben saw the house in the distance and smiled to himself.

Closer, closer.

And then Kale made a quick gasping sound. His voice rang out, “I see something! I see something! Faster, Lynnie! Faster, faster, faster!”

“What happened to no peeking?” asked Ben.

“Lost cause,” said Lynnie.

Elka twisted around. She squirmed free from Ben's grasp and ran to the house.

Ben helped Lynnie with the cart again, and although they were still cautious, now they glided over the tall grass at a clip. Since Kale was not supposed to leave the cart, they circled the house and parked in front so Kale could see inside.

“Wow!” said Kale. “This is so cool!”

Elka poked her head out of the doorway. “It's a house! A real house! And Kale, our magic silver rings are inside like a ceiling that jiggles.” Her smile was radiant, and her eyes widened and remained so, as if they had been permanently propped open. She waggled her head, adding, “Oh!”

Because it was nearer, Kale reached out with his broken arm. He uncurled his fingers and touched the paper chains, examined the branches that formed the doorframe. “How did you do it?” he asked.

“It was Ben's idea,” Lynnie told him. “We used branches from the tree, so it's really your old gift, just done up in a new way.”

“We did it together,” said Ben. “We did it for you guys. It's your gift now.”

“You still have to add your nests and that old baby doll,” said Lynnie. “Those things will really make it yours.”

Kale seemed genuinely awed. He smiled suddenly, engagingly, grabbing Elka's shirt and pulling her close. “Hey,” he whispered fiercely, not really whispering at all, “we could still give the baby our nests and the doll and keep
this
for us.”

Elka tittered at the thought. “We can't do that.”

“I know,” said Kale. “But we can use it until the baby's born.”

“Told you,” Lynnie said to Ben.

Ben gave Lynnie a deliberate, slow smile. “
I
told
you
.”

It didn't matter.

Ben felt a lightness expanding in his chest. He had been waiting to hear Kale say, “I forgive you.” But, words or not, he already knew that he was. Forgiven.

They spent the rest of the day together. Since Lynnie's grandmother was watching Kale anyway, she volunteered to keep an eye on Elka as well, which freed Lynnie to do as she pleased.

They hung out in the orchard—straddling low branches, talking about the impending start of school; lying on the ground in the shade, staring up into the density of fruit and leaves, silent; eating far too many apples and peaches.

“I can help you pack,” Lynnie offered at one point, peach juice dripping down her chin.

“I just cram everything into my bag and I'm done,” said Ben. He threw an apple core at a big, mossy rock. He hit it perfectly, right in the middle, and wondered if the effort had earned him a wish.

They walked and walked, circling back to the little house to admire their brilliance.

“What are you going to get the baby?” asked Lynnie.

“I don't know.” He hadn't given it a moment's thought. “What about you?”

“Baby-sitting coupons. I already made them. It's really a gift for Ian and Nina, but that's the best kind of baby gift—one that's for the parents, too.”

They ate lunch at Lynnie's house. They ate dinner at Ian and Nina's.

As dusk settled in, they watched Nina, on the ironing board, trying, once again, to turn the baby. Kneeling, Lynnie leaned toward Nina's belly to say a few words. “Turn around, you little thing,” she said kindly. “And after you're born, I'll tell you all about your cousin.”