Читать книгу The Summer List - Amy Mason Doan - Страница 12

5

Bartles & Jaymes

2016

Thursday evening

Casey and I sat on the dock and watched the sky until there was only a delicate tracing of red around the mountains. One by one, people flicked their lights on, ringing the dark lake in dots of glowing yellow.

“I forgot how beautiful it is,” I said.

“It’s changed, though. Not as quiet as it used to be.”

“I go to sleep to the sounds of the #1 California Muni bus,” I said. “It makes these horrible groaning noises as it struggles up the hill. I feel like one day they’re going to ask me to come out and help push.”

“Did you drive in through town or did you take I-5 and Southshore?”

“Southshore.”

“So you didn’t see how fancy we are now. We have two espresso places and a Chef’s Choice. You know, so you don’t have to haul all the way to Tahoe City for your triple-shot latte and your ten million kinds of chèvre.”

“And there’s a fantastic bookstore, I hear.”

“Who told you, your mother?”

“Yeah, she—”

“Right. Like she would use the word fantastic to describe anything remotely associated with me.”

“She doesn’t—”

“Stop. Don’t even try. So. Speaking of goat cheese. I think it’s time to move this wild party indoors. Unless you think we’ll be too crowded.”

* * *

Jett was still sleeping when I opened the car door. I clipped her leash on before she was alert enough to go nuts. “Wake up, sweet girl.”

She shook herself, jingling her tags, and perked up the second she got out, excited by new smells. I let her pee and sniff her way down the driveway while Casey switched lights on behind us.

My phone rang and Sam’s face flashed on my screen. Sam was the “goofy foot,” the famous surfing lefty, from his café’s name. The picture I’d programmed in, though, was Sam as I knew him, not the cocky young surf-punk from the past that I emblazoned on his T-shirts and magnets and mugs, but forty pounds heavier and forty years older. Big and weather-beaten, kind of like an aging Beach Boy. I liked that Sam best.

He knew I’d been considering visiting my hometown this weekend. He was the only person I’d told, and he’d urged me to go, to take a risk. His exact words were You need more friends besides that hyper mutt and some old has-been fatty ex-surfer.

“I shouldn’t have come,” I whispered into the phone. “It’s beyond awful. Are you happy?”

“I think the question is ‘are you happy?’” He spoke in his best Yoda imitation. Which was a pretty poor one. There was a fine line between Yoda and Fozzie Bear from the Muppets, and Sam always veered too Fozzie.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Sam. I’m not up to it right now.”

“Sorry, sorry. But keep me posted. And if you wimp out and come home early, you’re fired. Anyone can slap some doodles on a T-shirt. You’re totally replaceable.”

“Supportive as always, Sam.”

“Email me. I want to live vicariously.”

“This is all about you, then.”

“Naturally.”

“Bye.”

Jett was about as eager to go inside as I was but I tugged her leash. “Time to go in, JJ-girl.”

Time to trade one unfamiliar landscape for another.

Casey had told the truth; she and Alex hadn’t made many changes to The Shipwreck. Though there was evidence of a child—a fairy book, glittery purple sneakers on the floor, one of which I had to wrestle away from Jett as Casey walked over from the kitchen.

“Behave, Jett. Sorry.”

“She’s all right.” Casey scratched her under her collar. “Jett, you said? As in Joan? Right, the spiky black hair.”

I waited for Casey to give me just a little more. For her voice to warm a few degrees as she said, Remember the poster you gave me? That CD you used to hide at my house?

“She’s a troublemaker like her namesake,” I said.

“She’s a sweetheart. I love Labs.”

“Thanks. And how old is your little girl? Elle, you said? Not that I mean she’s the same as a pet...” I needed to stop talking. Or at least rehearse every sentence in my head a minimum of three times before letting it exit my mouth.

Casey waited for me to stop. No “no worries,” an expression it seemed the rest of the world used ten times a day. No “don’t be silly.”

“She just turned ten. She’s been with us since she was five.”

“Can I see her picture?”

Casey pointed to the photos hung on the stairwell. “You can see dozens, we’re running out of room.”

I walked up the stairs to examine the pictures while Casey crouched and scratched Jett’s stomach. Jett was in textbook passive pose, on her back, paws limp. Casey had already won her over. At least she was making an effort with my pet.

I didn’t have to hunt long for the little girl’s face. She was all over the wall. A plump child with wavy brown hair and brown eyes, younger in the photos closer to the center, older in the ones crammed around the edges. There she was with a smiling Casey, fishing. There she was with her face red from a Popsicle. Carrying a backpack in front of my old elementary school.

“She’s adorable,” I called.

“Thanks.”

Alex had started the wall the September after she and Casey moved in, first with a handful of framed photos clustered where they were easily visible from the middle step. The collection had grown outward, the spacing tightening over the years as real estate got scarce.

I knew so many of the images. Casey blowing out birthday candles at three and four and seven, her cheeks round, her eyes bright. Casey jumping off dive blocks at swim meets, her age only discernible by the length of her blurry legs. Casey and Alex on the trip to Mexico when Casey was fifteen, toasting with their margarita glasses in some awful spring-break club. Casey in the garden, pretending to mash herbs with Alex’s mortar and pestle, her raised eyebrows showing just what she thought of Alex’s pagan phase. Alex at her pottery wheel, squinting into the sun, her cheeks and forehead flecked with white clay. Alex as a toddler on the beach in San Francisco, the ruins of the Sutro Baths behind her. I looked at that one closely, trying to identify the old Victorian up the hill that Sam had turned into his shop, years after the photo was taken. But I couldn’t find it.

I’d once been on the wall, too. Prominently featured. By senior year I was in ten pictures. My favorite had been positioned eight steps up. Me and Casey in the kayak, raising our paddles over our heads and laughing, water pouring down in shining streams around us.

But that one was no longer there, and neither were any of the others. I’d been curated out of the gallery.

I walked down the stairs, smiling so Casey wouldn’t know what I’d been thinking.

“My mom still has them.”

“Has what?”

“The pictures of you. She keeps the one of us in the kayak in her studio.”

I nodded. What was I supposed to say? No worries?

“So,” Casey said, walking to the kitchen. “Wine? Rosé all right? And I wasn’t kidding about the cheese. I didn’t know what you’d like so I got it all. Hard, soft, everything in between.”

“What, no cookie dough?” I followed Casey across the living room.

“Cookie dough?”

“You know, trio of cookie dough.”

She turned to face me.

“Trio of cookie dough,” I said. “Manicures. Crank calls?”

“What are you talking about?”

And I realized it even before my hand closed around the invitation in my pocket.

The invitation Casey hadn’t sent.

I’d handled the hot-pink envelope so much over the past three weeks it had gotten soft. I passed it to Casey and she pulled the card out. After one glance she walked over to the rolltop desk in the corner, so fast I didn’t have a chance to read her expression.

She handed me a piece of filmy blue stationery. “We’ve been had.”

The handwriting’s resemblance to mine was impressive.

“‘Dear Casey, I’ve been thinking about our friendship a lot lately, and missing you. Would you mind if I came for a visit? I’ll be in town on...’”

I didn’t need to read any more.

“Your mom,” I said.

“I’m going to strangle her.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Do you want to go?”

* * *

When Casey stomped to the refrigerator for the rosé she found it had been replaced by a six-pack of Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers with a fat manila envelope taped on top. Girls, it said on the outside, in Alex’s unmistakable curly handwriting.

Alex had even remembered our flavor preference from senior year. Junior year our favorite had been Snow Creek Berry, but by the fall of 1998 we’d transitioned to Peach Bellini, and that’s what she’d bought.

We sat on the sofa with our drinks, Alex’s envelope between us. Casey studied her bottle’s label, circling the round B&J logo with her index finger.

“Do you want to open it?” I said.

“You’re the guest, you should have the honor.”

“I need a minute.”

“She turned in a pretty goddamned good performance of acting surprised when I showed her the letter,” Casey said. She swigged her Peach Bellini, her grip on the bottle so tight her knuckles blanched. “I mean, Golden Globe–worthy.”

“She took that acting class in Pinecrest,” I said softly. When was it? Sophomore year? It didn’t matter, but it was all I could handle at the moment, that one fact, so I concentrated hard until I pulled it from my memory. Spring of sophomore year. Endless monologues from Uncle Vanya and Streetcar.

“Right. Then suddenly she said it would be better if she wasn’t here, if the two of us had ‘quality time’ together. And today she blew town with Elle.” Casey’s cheeks had reddened. Her angry clown look, Alex had always called it.

I could leave.

But Casey hadn’t kicked me out. She’d hot potato’d the question of what to do right back at me.

In the Stay column, at least Casey was sharing a piece of furniture with me.

In the Go column—she could not be farther away. The sofa had two big seat cushions, and while I sat in the middle of mine, Casey was so far away, wedged against the opposite arm, that she’d made her cushion lift up in the center of the sofa like she was raising a little padded drawbridge between us.

Another for the Go column—she was gripping her wine cooler so tight I could see the raised outline of the delicate center bone inside her wrist.

I sipped my sickly sweet peach drink.

Jett settled on the floor between us. Casey stretched her leg out so her heel could rub circles around Jett’s fluffy midsection. I put the fact that she was petting my dog in the Stay column. “Let’s at least open the letter.”

“You do it, I’m too pissed.” Casey took another swig of her drink and set it on the coffee table. She squeezed her left hand into a ball, then radiated her fingers out again like a magician in the “abracadabra” moment of the act. A de-stressing technique I used myself sometimes.

I set my bottle down a respectful distance from hers and tore open the envelope. Alex had taped a hundred-dollar bill to the top of a handwritten note. I carefully peeled off the cash and waved it.

“What’s that for?” Casey said.

I scanned the letter. It was all so perfectly, ridiculously Alex I couldn’t help smiling in spite of everything.

“What’s funny?” Casey said.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“The hundred’s a bribe? It’s not even a decent one.”

“It’s not a bribe, listen,” I said. “‘Girls. I know you must be a little angry, and...’”

“Ha. Just a little.”

“...‘and I don’t blame you. Okay, maybe you’re more than a little angry.’

“‘But remember you’re angry at me, not at each other. It was always that way, wasn’t it? I was to blame then, too. I was the adult.’”

Casey snorted.

“‘Correction. I was supposed to be the adult.’ Supposed to be is underlined...” I tried to meet Casey’s eyes but she wouldn’t look at me. She was staring at her bottle.

“‘So please see this for what it is: my attempt to make things right.’

“‘Or see it as one last scavenger hunt. They were fun, weren’t they? At least at first? I want this to be fun for you, too.’”

I waited for Casey’s comment.

“Fun. God, I’m going to kill her... Sorry, sorry.” Casey held up her free hand in apology. “Keep going.”

“‘I’ve made up a list.’” I fished out another piece of white paper, this one printed from a computer and folded in half. I held it up for Casey, who had inched closer. I didn’t open it. I set it between us, facedown, so it bridged our couch cushions.

“‘There are ten things. Five photos to take and five things to find, just like when you were in high school. I put a lot of thought into choosing the items. I couldn’t find the right film for the old Polaroids so I got you a new instant camera at the Sharper Image...’”

“Unreal.” Casey closed her eyes. “Doesn’t she realize we can take pictures with our phones now? Not that we’re going to be taking pictures anyway...”

“Wait, listen... ‘I realize you can take pictures with your phones now...’” I pointed at Casey and gave her a chance to get her sarcasm in. We had a nice rhythm going.

“Because that makes this totally reasonable,” she said.

“...‘but I thought it’d be more fun this way. More like old times, you know? The camera is in the top left drawer of my dresser. A couple of these clues will take you out of town (hint, hint) so the money is for gas and incidentals.’”

“My mom did not write incidentals. What is she, a corporate accountant all of a sudden?”

“She did write incidentals.” I tilted the letter so she could see.

“‘I’ll be monitoring your progress so no cheating. This will only work if you do it right.’

“‘When you’ve finished all ten things on the list I’ll trade you for something you’ve both wanted for a long time. Something I probably should have given you years ago.’

“‘Please trust me one last time. I know that’s a lot to ask. But you have to complete this game before I give you your prize. You’ll understand Sunday, I promise.’”

“That’s it?” Casey said.

“No. She signed it. ‘Love, Alex.’”

I unfolded the paper and skimmed the first few clues. They were written in rhymes, but didn’t seem too hard. Not by Alex’s old standards. “Want to know what’s on the list?”

“Let me guess. A syrup jug from the Creekside. The mayor’s watering can. A picture by the drinking fountain at school.”

“You’ve got the basic idea. A guided trip down memory lane. It’s all summer stuff.”

“Adorable.”

“So what do you think the prize is? Something we’ve both wanted for a long time.”

“Right now I want to throw a Sharper Image novelty Polaroid camera at her face. No, I want to punch her in the face.” Casey clenched and unclenched her fist again, as if imagining the satisfaction she’d get from delivering the blow.

She grabbed the list, crumpled it up without reading it, and tossed it, aiming for the wall opposite us. It barely cleared the coffee table. Jett bounded over and returned it to her, wagging her tail. “She even got your dog into the act.”

I patted my knees. “Give it, Jetty.”

I unfolded the damp paper on my lap. “She wrote the clues in rhymes. Five-line rhymes.”

“Those are called quintains. You missed the morbid poetry phase she got into after 9/11.”

“The clues seem pretty easy,” I said. “Listen to this one:

“‘Here you used to glide and spin

Young and swift and free

On hoofs of brown and orange you’d...’”

Casey interrupted. “The skating rink. Tough clue, Mom.”

“I don’t think she wants the clues to be hard. I don’t think that’s the point this time.”

Casey pressed her bright cheek against the side of her wine cooler. “She was good, I’ll give her that. Acting as surprised as me when your letter showed up. Talking me into how great it’d be if you came and I should at least give it a chance, how hard it must have been for you to reach out after all this time...” She broke off. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I picked up the sheet of blue stationery from the coffee table. Until half an hour ago Casey had thought I’d sent it. And I noticed something that I hadn’t the first time. “My” letter had a tracery of lines in it. Casey had crumpled it up, too. Maybe Alex even had to fish the balled-up letter from the garbage. I couldn’t blame Casey; I’d resisted, too. But it hurt.

“She outsmarted us,” I said.

“Those handwriting samples we did junior year...” Casey said.

“Sophomore year.”

“Was it? Anyway, I can’t even deal with that part right now, the idea of her holing up in her studio, plotting this twisted fiesta when I thought she was painting. She was up there copying our handwriting while I was down here reading Lemony Snicket with Elle, totally oblivious.”

“She thought we needed an activity,” I said. “Like toddlers.”

“This says it all.” Casey picked up the manila envelope and punched the word Girls, denting the paper.

I nodded, though I knew Casey was getting worked up for reasons that had nothing to do with being treated like a child.

The scavenger hunts Alex masterminded when we were in high school weren’t just party games to keep us entertained. Maybe they’d started off that way. But they’d become something else, and the final prize, for both of us, had been the end of our friendship. Alex couldn’t make that right with an apology and ten bad poems.

We sipped our drinks. Casey petted Jett with her foot and I read Alex’s list.

Most of the items were in town. Walking distance, even. The only item that would take some effort was the last one.

Not that we were doing it.

The grandfather clock struck eight and after the final, resounding bong it felt even quieter than before.

“So I get that she wants us to make up,” I said. “But why now?”

Casey shook her head, focusing on a spot in the air above my head. She whispered something.

I tapped her knee, then, startled by the familiarity of the gesture, pulled my hand back. “Did you say no?”

Casey cleared her throat. “I said, ‘I know.’” She shook her head as if to reset her thoughts. “I know why she’s doing it now.”

“Why?”

She smiled, but her eyes were glazed. Jett whimpered and snuffled into her lap.

“Because you have your little girl?” I said.

She shook her head.

“Then it’s...because we’re thirty-five? Or I am, and you will be in August. And thirty-five is, I don’t know, the age you miraculously become older and wiser and able to get over the past according to your mom?”

“No.”

“So tell me.”

Casey’s hand trembled as she set her drink down. She shook her head again. Then, so fast I hardly knew what was happening, she was gone. Out the front door. Barefoot, launching herself into the cold night.

I waited five minutes. Ten. Long enough to feel the cool air coming in through the open door. I reread Alex’s list, trying to find clues between the clues. Why now, Alex? The answer tried to burrow into my thoughts, but I couldn’t latch onto it.

Jett whimpered, her nose pointed at the front door.

“Should we go after her, Jetty?”

She thumped her tail, and then ran to the door, where I clipped on her leash. At the last second I returned for the clue list.