The Notations of Cooper Cameron Page 17

  A phone rings beyond the hill. They all turn their heads, listening. “That’s our phone,” Caddie says.

  “I suppose I should get it,” their mother says. She stands. Steps into her flip-flops. Walks slowly up the hill. The phone rings again.

  “I bet that’s Dad,” Caddie says in her whisper voice. “You wanna bet he can’t make it?”

  “Why would we wager on something we know to be true?”

  “It’s just a saying, Cooper. Don’t be so literal.”

  He picks up a dead sand spider with a stick. “Look,” he says.

  “Don’t you dare,” Caddie says.

  The flying arachnid lands atop Tezorene. Leaps from its ship. The oxydiptera have mutated. Grown exponentially. This emergency calls for more aitch-two-oh. Cooper fills the bucket. Accidentally spills the water near Caddie’s foot.

  “Cooper! I said, don’t.”

  “It was an accident. I am attempting to eradicate the oxydiptera.”

  “There is no such thing as oxydiptera.”

  “You mean are. And you are wrong. Oxydiptera are alive and well on Tezorene. Unfortunately.”

  Their mother is gone a long time. Caddie’s scarf is longer than ever. And the oxydiptera have been eradicated. Tezorene is free. Aitch-two-oh has brought new and unexpected life to Tezorene.

  “The hot dogs are ready,” their mother calls from the top of the hill.

  “Can we have a picnic on the beach?” Cooper calls back.

  “Not today,” she says. “Please come up here.”

  Cooper hears sadness in his mother’s voice. More sadness than ever. Cooper knows Caddie is right: The Father is not coming. Cooper is right too: a bet was unnecessary. Cooper thinks of the big rock at home on his desk. He imagines it alone. Forever.

  Tezorene sizzles. The sand dries up like dust. The mastermind stands frozen on the blistering hot grounds of Tezorene. The Father must still be angry. He doesn’t know how hard Cooper has worked to be good. So hard. So hard. So hard.

  But something feels different. Something has changed.

  “C’mon, I’m starving,” Caddie says.

  The hot dogs lie still in their buns like hibernating Tezornauts. They are unaware of impending disaster. The world of Tezorene could come to an end and the hibernating Tezornauts would never know what happened.

  Their mother pours the last of the potato chips into a bowl. They crunch like warm lettuce. The ketchup is almost gone.

  “Who called?” Caddie asks. She washes her hands at the pump in the kitchen.

  “Dad,” their mother says, her voice flat.

  “You were right,” Cooper says to Caddie.

  “Let me guess,” Caddie says. “He’s not coming.”

  Cooper holds his breath. The potato chip melts on his tongue. Turns to goo. He thinks of Tezorene. Thinks of all the garbage and waste pushed to its center. Smoldering. He pictures himself as the incinerator. Swallows the melted potato chip.

  “Oh, Caddie,” their mother says. Her eyes glisten. Cooper hears a secret in the single breath between her words. She wipes the sticky ketchup bottle with a paper towel. “Here,” she says. “I added a little water to stretch it.”

  Caddie carries the ketchup bottle to the dining room table. “Well, is he?” She leans over her chair. Picks up a hot dog. Squirts it with runny ketchup.

  Their mother shakes her head. Looks at the paper towel smeared with ketchup. “No, he’s not,” she says, “but . . .”

  Cooper sits down. He knows the paper towel has blurred to nothingness in his mother’s eyes. He takes a bite of his hot dog. Watches. Waits. Listens.

  “But what?” Caddie says. “What?”

  Caddie and his mother move like robots in slow motion. Caddie sits down. Takes a bite of her hot dog. His mother squeezes the paper towel. Turns toward the kitchen. A bird lands on the windowsill, flies away.

  “He won’t be living at home when we get back.”

  Cooper saw this secret coming. Again, he thinks of the big rock at home on his desk. Alone. He should have brought it to the cabin. He should have kept the family whole. He should have worked harder to be good. He chews his bite of hot dog one, two, three times on one side. Turns his head so no one will notice. Hopes no one will see That Boy sitting in the chair next to him at the table. He chews his hot dog one, two, three times on the other side.

  “What?” Caddie says.

  “I asked him to leave,” their mother says from the kitchen.

  Cooper stops chewing.

  “What do you mean?” Caddie leans back in her chair, hard. Her chair creaks. “Are you getting a divorce? Is that what you mean?”

  Cooper is afraid. Afraid to listen. He wants to count. He wants to run to his room and read, three times three times three. But he cannot leave Caddie in her hour of need. He needs to be her hero. He must stay strong. He cannot let his fear show.

  Caddie’s hands shake. Her voice shrinks to a tiny murmur. “Are you?”

  Cooper imagines Caddie at the top of a roller coaster. He can’t reach her. What if she falls? What if he can’t catch her?

  Their mother comes to the table. “We don’t know yet,” she says with serious eyes. “We just know things need to change.”

  Falling, falling, falling.

  “I had hoped,” their mother says, “but—”

  “It’s my fault, isn’t it? It’s all my fault because I told him to go home.” Caddie throws her hot dog on her plate. Folds her arms. Blinks back tears. Looks down.

  “It’s not your fault,” Cooper says. “It’s my fault.”

  “Please. It’s nobody’s fault,” their mother says. She reaches for their hands. “It’s been hard for a long time. And when things get harder, it all just gets worse.”

  Caddie is sad. His mother is sad. The air is silent and heavy with sadness. Cooper thinks of Mike and The Grinner. He pulls a sentence from his memory. “Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better,” he says.

  Caddie lifts her head. Squints her wet eyes at him. She takes a deep, shaky breath.

  Their mother smiles. A smile so heavy she lets it go. She puts one hand on Cooper’s arm, uses the other to wipe tears from her face with the paper towel. A piece of dried ketchup hangs from her eyelash. “That’s why sometimes change is for the better.” She takes a bite of soft potato chip, spits it into her hand. “These are stale,” she says. The bit of dried ketchup falls into the bowl. Lands on a stale potato chip. “I’ll get you something else.”

  Cooper stares at his hot dog until it blurs to nothingness. Change, change, change. Channels change. Gears change. Minds change. Leaves change color and die and then it is winter and then it is spring and leaves come back. People die and do not come back and there is nothing you can do about it.

  And some people are erroneous perceptions of reality.

  Like That Boy.

  Like The Father.

  He takes out his pencil.

  Sometimes things change when you don’t want them to. It is better when change is your own idea.

  Their mother brings a plate and two apples to the table. She slices the apples into wedges. Holds a piece to her lips. “We’ll just take it step by step,” she says. She takes a bite of the apple and goes back to the kitchen. “Do you want some milk?”

  Cooper takes another bite of his hot dog. Chews it on the right side one, two, three times. The watery ketchup drips onto his plate. He feels heat in his face. A burn in his eyes. The sting of salt. Be strong. Be strong. Be strong. Be strong for Caddie. He puts his hot dog on his plate. Swallows. Looks at Caddie. Tears stream from her red eyes.

  “Don’t cry, Caddie,” he says. He wishes Grandpa were here to make it all better. “Everything will be okay.” He pulls another sentence from his memory. “We can’t see it right now, but everyone else can.”

  “See what?” Caddie says.

  “That everything’s going to be okay. We’ll be okay.”

  “How do you know?”

&nb
sp; Cooper doesn’t know. He has no idea. No proof. He needs Caddie to tell him they will be okay. If Caddie says it, then it will be true, because everything she says is getting more and more believable every day. But she is falling. Falling from the sky. And he must catch her before she hits the ground. She needs him to catch her.

  And he needs her.

  He needs her to say everything will be okay.

  “Say we’ll be okay, Caddie. Just say it.” Caddie stares at him. He pounds the table with his fist. One, two, three times. “Please. I need you to say it.”

  Caddie puts her hand on his fist. Holds it tight. She wipes the tears from her eyes. From her face. “Okay, Cooper. We’ll be okay,” she says.

  Okay, okay, okay. “I knew it,” he says. “I knew it. I knew it. We’ll be okay.”

  She smiles.

  She believes him.

  And he believes her.

  Because everything Caddie says is getting more and more believable every day.

  We’ll be okay, Cooper thinks when they go to the grocery store. Okay, he thinks when they buy everything they need to make chocolate ice cream. Strawberry too, because his mother likes strawberry ice cream and Cooper wants her to be happy.

  Okay, he thinks when they go back to the beach and Caddie and his mother sit side by side, knitting.

  Okay, he thinks when they eat spaghetti for dinner. “Look,” their mother says, coming in from the yard, holding one red tomato. “I grew it myself.” She cuts it into three pieces. Smiles proudly. “There. A vegetable.” Caddie laughs. Then their mother laughs. Then Cooper laughs. But only for a moment. There is still a lot to keep track of.

  “Everything will be okay,” he says to Amicus when he sits down on his bed and wipes sand from his feet. Okay, he thinks if he reads.

  He will read to his mother’s secrets. To The Father being alone. To Caddie’s sadness. Okay, he thinks when he writes this in his notebook:

  Sometimes heroes are heroic because they are brave enough to change.

  Cooper lays out his rocks at the foot of his bed. The big one with the fossil, the one the size of his fist, the two small ones, and the little flat one. Like a nickel. By tomorrow he must finish The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and tell Mike he loved it, just like Mike said he would.

  He reads and reads and reads.

  Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher are still lost in the cave. But maybe Tom has found a way out. Cooper counts the pages—all the way to eighteen. Eighteen times three, times three, equals one hundred and sixty-two. He reads about the funeral and the ransom money. And all about Huck. Huck, Huck, Huck. How Huck joins the gang like a respectable fellow.

  He reads and reads and reads.

  And yawns.

  He is almost done with the book. Only one paragraph to go. The paragraph is called “Conclusion.” But Cooper is tired. So tired he can’t finish. But he must finish. He must finish in time to give the book back to Mike at the ice cream party.

  The words on the page turn fuzzy. So. So. So. Endeth. Endeth. Endeth. This. This. This. Chronicle. Chronicle. Chronicle. So endeth this chronicle. Cooper stops reading. Counts the lines that remain. Ten. Only ten lines left. He yawns again. He wants to know how the book ends. Wants to know what Samuel Langhorne Clemens has to say to the world. He can’t read another word. Must read every word. Three times three. Tonight is his last chance.

  He keeps reading.

  He reads the next word once. Just once before his eyes begin to close.

  His head bobs.

  His eyes open.

  He looks around the room. At the golden walls. At the dresser. At Amicus the Great.

  Everything is the same. Nothing is on fire.

  He reads the next word just once.

  And waits.

  Then the next word, just once.

  And waits.

  He reads the rest of the sentence. As fast as he can. Just once.

  He reads as if he is running. Jumping stone to stone across a rushing river. As if his life depends on it.

  All. The. Way. To. The. End.

  Done.

  Cooper is out of breath. Out of breath and still breathing. Alive.

  He dares to look up. Amicus’s chest pumps with smokeless breath. Amicus the Great is alive. Cooper gets out of bed. Gets his magnifying glass. Opens his door without a sound. Tiptoes across the hall.

  Caddie’s elbow glows in the moonlight. She breathes invisible whispers. Cooper inhales deeply. Soundlessly. He does not smell smoke. He holds the magnifying glass above Caddie’s head. Does not see sparks of fire in her hair.

  But he hears a creak across the cabin. He must check on his mother.

  Cooper tiptoes through the living room in the moonlight to the other side of the cabin. He watches his shadow sneak like a robber’s across the wall. The robber of life. He has broken his own rules. He has risked the lives of people he loves.

  Cooper listens at his mother’s door. Hears her sigh in her sleep. When he breathes deeply, all he smells is dish soap. Nothing is burning.

  Everyone is still alive.

  The cabin is quiet.

  The books and the chairs and the lamps and the tables stand still in the moonlight.

  Everything is exactly the same.

  But everything has changed.

  A funny noise.

  Cooper tiptoes back to his room. He knew it. Amicus is croaking. Croaking with joy.

  A tremble begins in Cooper’s toes. Rises in his legs. Sparks in his stomach. He thinks of the glass fishing boat with the dead ivy. The turtle crawling in the wrong direction. The look in the eye of the dying fish. Of Mr. Bell trying to hold his camera steady. His mother’s one tomato.

  Like a power surge, electricity moves through Cooper’s whole body. He imagines himself glowing. Glowing with hope.

  Sailing

  They’re late. They’re late. They’re late.

  Beneath the colossal Norway pines, Cooper watches the driveway for his special guests, rocking foot to foot. He is looking forward. Forward, forward, forward.

  “Look what I found in a drawer,” his mother says.

  Cooper looks. His mother is blowing into a yellow balloon.

  “What time is it?” Cooper asks.

  She pinches the balloon. Looks at her watch. “Seven o-five.”

  “The party started at seven o’clock sharp,” Cooper says.

  “That doesn’t mean he’s late, Cooper,” Caddie says, coming outside. “Not yet.”

  Cooper rocks foot to foot.

  “It’s okay, Cooper. Mr. Bell might not be up to it,” his mother says. She blows into the balloon again. “We can have our own party if he can’t come.” She ties the yellow balloon to the clothesline. It hangs, like a drop of water, frozen in mid-air.

  Cooper does not like looking forward. Looking forward makes him shiver inside. Looking forward feels like being scared.

  A white vehicle slows by the mailbox. Could it be Mike? No, it is not a Jeep. It’s a van. The van groans. Turns down the driveway. “It’s Mr. Bell!” Cooper shouts.

  “Who else would it be?” Caddie says.

  Mary Ann is driving. Cooper gives Mary Ann a big thumbs-up through the windshield. Waves his hands. Shows Mary Ann where to park under the biggest Norway pine.

  Mary Ann gets out of the van. She opens the back end and pulls out a folded-up wheelchair. She opens Mr. Bell’s door. The oxygen tank hisses. Mary Ann disconnects the oxygen tank. Carries Mr. Bell as if he is a stiff doll. His plaid fishing hat falls to the ground.

  Today Mr. Bell looks like a praying mantis—hunched and thin and pale green. Mr. Bell has changed color with the leaves.

  Mary Ann reconnects the oxygen tank. Brushes off his fishing hat and puts it back on his head. Mr. Bell is reassembled.

  “Welcome to our abode,” Cooper says.

  Mary Ann sets Betsy the camera in Mr. Bell’s lap. Voices twitter like birds. Mr. Bell is glad to be here. Was here before. Many years ago. Why the last time . . .

 
; Of course, his mother says. She remembers too. And his mother is the spitting image of her mother. What a coincidence. Why is it they never got together sooner? That’s just how things go. Hard to believe another summer is almost over.

  It seems like yesterday.

  Yes, it is hard to believe.

  Of course, it is hard to believe.

  Time is an illusion.

  It’s hard to believe Mike will come to the party. If he is coming, he should be here by now. Cooper looks up the driveway. Watches the road through the trees. Watches for the white Jeep with leaping fish painted on its door.

  “Cooper? Should we go in and get started?” his mother asks.

  “That’s a good idea,” Mary Ann says. “The sun is hard on Mr. Bell.”

  “The sun is not hard on Mr. Bell,” Mr. Bell says in his crackle voice that sounds like Amicus croaking. He slaps the arm of his wheelchair. “Old age is hard on Mr. Bell. And there isn’t even much of that left. I say we stay outside. And please call me Jerry.”

  “How about the beach, Jerry?” Cooper’s mother says.

  Mary Ann frowns. “I don’t know about—”

  “The beach is fine,” Mr. Bell says in his gravel voice.

  The wheelchair is hard to push in the sand. Caddie helps. His mother helps. Cooper picks up sticks and rocks in the path. Together they push and pull and roll Mr. Bell’s wheelchair across the mossy grass and down the hill to the beach and park Mr. Bell under the yellow leaves of the birch tree.

  Cooper faces the hill. He wants Mr. Bell to be happy, but he can’t see the road from the beach. What if Mike comes? What if Mike comes and doesn’t know the party is on the beach?

  “What’s that?” Caddie says. She is pointing at the lake. Pointing at a boat. At two people in a boat towing something big and orange and otherworldly toward the dock. The contraption bobs and tips behind the boat. Its mast sways.

  “Who is that?” Cooper’s mother asks.

  “Looks like Ron Tisdale. Richard’s boy,” Mr. Bell says. “And his son, Mike.”

  “Oh, Cooper,” Caddie says, her cheeks turning pinker and pinker by the second. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

  “What a coincidence,” Cooper says.