The Understory (22 page)

“Fine,” she said, “but nothing about me is very interesting. My name is Story Easton. I write bad advice on greeting cards for a living, because the good advice doesn’t sell. I’m an only child—unprecedented disappointment, if you couldn’t tell. Lately, I’ve been breaking into decent people’s homes so I can pretend to be someone else besides my boring, miserable self. Let’s see, my mother secretly rules the world from an underground lair. I like an occasional greasy burger. I hate questions. And I haven’t had a date in over eight months because I’m not particularly charming or forgiving. Is that enough to send you running?”

Hans thought for a moment. “How often, exactly, do you crave a greasy burger?”

Story smiled.

And then, they talked—about burgers, about politics, about unbelievable magic tricks. All the while, Story watched Hans’s hands dart back and forth, like a cat intently watching the thing it desired. Sometimes he touched his face, and when he did, she imagined his fingers on her own cheek. And just when things were getting cozy, Beverly emerged from the party and came out onto the terrace. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but may I have a moment with my daughter?”

Story promised not to be long, and Hans left them, mother and daughter, alone under starry skies. Story turned to Beverly. “Thanks, Mom, it was lovely.”

“The crab cakes were shitty,” said Beverly. “I told them how you like them, but they didn’t turn out right. And I told our little orchestra to play
only
Rolling Stones songs—I heard you say you liked them once—but I could’ve sworn I heard Bob Dylan five minutes ago. And those Turlington Triplets! . . . dreadfully servile.” She shook her head in disgust. “Factory-made cutouts.” She looked at her only daughter. “You, Story, are one of a kind,” she said, glancing inside the building at the exclusive collection of exceptional art.

“Stop it, Mom,” Story said, smiling and using every ounce of energy she possessed to not look stunned, or worse yet, cry.

“I think I may have been a bit hard on you, Story Thyme,” she said, staring off into the Phoenix night sky. “Your father was such a nurturing man. When he died, I was solely responsible for you, and I knew I had to do whatever was necessary to make a life for us. But I was so busy teaching you to survive, I didn’t teach you how to live.”

“Are you feeling all right, Mom? You’re not going to try to convince me Santa Claus is real or anything, are you, because I don’t think I can—”

“You can do anything you want, Story,” she said with unfaltering resolve. Story waited for the words to fall flat, to become unbelievable or insincere, but they remained strong, pure, and true. “You just have to believe you can.”

Out of nowhere, Story Easton said, “Mom, you work so hard, you need someone to be your gardener.”

“Don’t be silly. I have ten gardeners,” she said, her perfectly groomed eyebrows arched as high as they would go.

“No, you need a partner. A man who acts like your gardener. Like Dad did.” Story hesitated, thinking about the dad she’d grown up without, the dad she’d missed every day of her life, and for the first time, she understood that while she’d gone without a dad, her mother had gone without a husband. “You’re so busy being the perfect flower. And you’ve worked so hard trying to get
me
to bloom.” The moment she said it, she realized how true it was, and wondered how she’d never noticed it before. “But who takes care of you?”

So what if the plant-gardener analogy referred to Paul Simon and Carrie Fisher’s failed marriage? (She’d heard it once in an interview—Paul referred to himself and Carrie as two flowers without a gardener.) It still worked.

“Well, I guess I could be friendlier to Miguel when he’s watering,” said Beverly. “He does seem to have a tender touch.”

In a moment of weakness, Story clung to the notion that her mother believed in her, and tried to savor a feeling that might not come again. “So, I’ve got this thing going on, Mom. It’s important, but I think I’ve screwed it up.”

“Nonsense. Is it a worthy cause?”

“Yes. Very.”

“If you think it is, then it is, so make it work, look within yourself. Good for you. It’s not a chance unless you take it.”

“Too bad my insides aren’t lined with cash,” Story mumbled.

“Is this about money? Because if it is—”

“No, no, no. I won’t take your money.” She became flustered. “I don’t need the prince,” she said, growing more agitated, “and I don’t need a fairy godmother to wave her little wand—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Magic is rubbish. Real fairy godmothers carry checkbooks—”

“No, really, I’m not taking your—”

“Shut up, will you? It’s not mine, it’s
yours
,” Beverly said. “All I ever wanted was for you to have doors of opportunity wherever you looked. Did you really think I forgot to get you birthday presents for thirty years? What kind of mother do you think I—”

“What you are talking about, Mother?”

“Your trust fund,” she said, simply.

“I have a trust fund? How much?” Story asked.

“Twenty thousand.”

“I have twenty thousand dollars?!”

“No.” She paused just long enough for Story to become depressed. “Not exactly. I put twenty thousand in on every one of your birthdays, starting when you were seven—that’s when the company really took off—and then I gave you retro-pay for the birthdays I’d already missed, so that makes six hundred thousand, plus interest, which is well over two million now, and that’s nothing compared to your percentage of revenue from all Socra-Tots® merchandise.” After calculating, she added, “The real party begins when I’m dead, my sweet, rich only child.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Story said, mouth agape.

“First off, you never asked,” she said, “but mainly, I was waiting until you were motivated to see something through. I was waiting until you gave a shit about something.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Looks like you give a shit about something now. Right?”

Story could have explained the plan in detail, reassuring her mother of her laudable plan, but Story’s eyes told a truth that was big enough even for Beverly Easton. Confident, Story said, “So what happens next?”

Beverly Easton paused, then did what she did best. “What do
you
think happens next?”

Story thought about it.
Talk it out
, her mother used to say.
Think it through, now.
“Okay. What happens? No, not what
happens
.” She was so excited, she could hardly speak.
Ninety percent of life is what happens . . . ten percent is what we do.
She looked her mother straight in the eye and, for once, felt she was looking straight ahead. “I’m going to
do
it.” Story’s face became serious, determined. “I have a very important birthday party to plan.”

“Don’t pay the guests to come,” her mother said. “Upon further reflection, I suppose it’s in poor taste.” She tested Story one more time. “Am I invited?”

“I’m afraid not, Mom,” Story said, with a hint of genuine regret. “This is a solo effort—gotta stay on my game. I made a promise.”

Beverly Easton could have spewed out her
Knowledge is Power
motto. She could have asked a question. But instead, she said something she’d never said to her only daughter. “Proud of you,” she whispered in Story’s ear. And then she walked back inside to relieve the next shift.

Hans came back to Story’s side when her mother left, and watched her stare out into the distance. “Nice chat?” he asked.

Story felt the weight of the night tighten in her chest, and didn’t answer, but nodded as she filled up with something foreign—something that was, at first, unrecognizable, but then evolved into something she’d desired her whole life. Was it
pride
? She made a silent introduction—
Pride: me. Me: pride
—hoping they’d see each other again.

Hans touched his pocket to make sure his surprise was still there, hiding behind his magic scarf, but not before he stretched his fingers, trying to relieve the ache without Story noticing. Before he knew it was Story’s birthday, he’d already decided to make her a small gift to say he was sorry her plan wasn’t working out. So nestled somewhere between green and blue silk was a tiny wooden machete to remind Story that if she couldn’t get to the jungle, maybe the jungle could come to her.

Reaching for the gift, he said, “So, since it’s your birthday—”

“The trip’s back on!” Story exclaimed.

Disappointed he wasn’t the one who fixed the problem, Hans moved his hand away from his pocket. “That’s great.”

But when she looked into his gray-blue eyes, they seemed stormier than usual. And suddenly, she figured out
Hughes’s dream.
It wasn’t Howard Hughes, but
Langston
Hughes.
DEFERRED.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

No one’s dreams would be shriveling on Story’s watch, so she grabbed Hans around his shoulders, pulled him into her, and kissed him without apology. For a long time. And when things escalated to that beautiful place where both kissers forget where they are, and who they are, she whispered in his ear, “I really, really, really,
really
want you . . . to be my sherpa.”

“I really, really, really,
really
want . . . to carry your bags,” Hans said. He paused for a moment. “Wait. How many bags will you have?”

“See?” she said, kissing his neck. “The dream wasn’t dead, just interrupted.”

“Story Easton, I don’t know what the hell you’re saying, but I like the way you say it.” Still tight in his embrace, Story slipped off her expensive right shoe and, without even thinking, played tender footsie with Hans. Instinctively, Hans got down on one knee and placed the right shoe on the right girl.

After getting back up, he returned more kisses and said, “Where should we go on our second date? Maybe Fred Harrington will let us make out in the back of his bus . . . or maybe those Turlington Triplets need some help saving the world—”

“The jungle. Isn’t that where most people go for a second date?”

“Only if I get to dress like Tarzan. And I’ll buy you a . . . Hey, I made you a little something. Or are you one of those princesses who wants the box with the big red ribbon?”

Story thought about what she really needed, what Cooper really needed, and as the clock in her mind struck midnight, she caressed Hans’s strong, skilled hands, and said, “Actually, all I need is the box.” How long would it take, she wondered, for a magic door-fixer to carve a magic treasure box?

Too scared to open my eyes, I explored what I was sitting on with my hands. Coarse hair. Warm flesh. Slow, easy gait. Snort.

Snort?!

Now, this startled me, so I did something I suppose one should never do while riding a strange animal in the jungle—I pulled this snorting thing’s fur, which sent it running, all the while snorting, “Don’t touch my fur! I have enough to worry about! Don’t ever touch my fur!” When he heard a noise behind us, he barreled, fast as his squat legs would go, toward a riverbank.

“Gosh, sorry,” I told him. With my eyes wide open now, I said, “Since when do pigs have fur?”

This time, he let out a timid, embarrassed snort. “I. Am. Not. A. Pig.”

But before I could ask him what he was, we both plunged into the river, and I found the world and the water around me swirling in slow motion. Bright-colored fish darted about in an excited frenzy, but tall plants swayed, unhurried, and danced amongst themselves. Just as I was beginning to enjoy this underwater realm, a thick, shiny fish swam over to me and smiled a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” My muffled scream let the river water pour into my mouth. I yanked the non-pig’s fur again and kicked him in the side like an incensed (exasperated) (mad) cowgirl.

“Okay, okay,” he gasped, exiting the water and lumbering back onto the riverbank. “Had to get to the water. Heard a noise. Got scared. Had to get where it’s safe.”

“Safe? I almost got my left cheek torn off by a piranha!”

“Oh, they don’t mess with me,” he said, finally sounding confident. “Fur’s too hard for ’em to chew.”

“And you are . . ?”

“I’m a capybara. No relation to swine.” After a snorty breath, he added, “Rats and mice are my brethren.”

“Gross!” I hollered, jumping off him. “You’re a giant rat?” But when he hung his furry head, and his little ears twitched, I felt bad. “I mean, that’s cool. My friend Sarah has a guinea pig—”

“I’m not a pig!”

We stared at each other for a moment, and I decided to make up for getting off on the wrong foot. Paw. Whatever. “Hope,” I said, extending my hand toward his front leg.

“How nice,” he said, gripping my hand with his webbed toes. “With a name like that, you always have hope, wherever you go.”

“My dad always says that!” But when I told him that, he didn’t look surprised. He only nuzzled his skittish self next to me and told me to jump back on.