The Notations of Cooper Cameron Read online

  “I’m just saying he’s so old he’s scary.”

  Cooper leans against the counter. Writes in his notebook.

  Sometimes things appear to be disgusting before you understand them. Like bugs.

  “What do you have there, Coop?”

  Cooper looks up. Slips his notebook into his pocket.

  His mother puts her hand on the bucket of blackberries. “What is this contraption?”

  “An ice cream maker,” he says. “We’re going to make the best ice cream we ever ate.”

  “What a coincidence,” his mother says. “I used to pick blackberries with my dad when I was little.” She plucks a blackberry from the bucket. Pops it in her mouth. “Yum.”

  “And I got this. I was afraid to touch anything else,” Caddie says. She holds up the autograph book. “Look at the first page.”

  Cooper watches his mother slowly brush her hand across the book’s cover. Slowly read the first page. Slowly smile. “Another coincidence,” she says. “You should take good care of this.”

  “I’m going to keep it up here at the cabin. On the mantel. I think it belongs someplace old,” Caddie says.

  “Can we make ice cream?” Cooper asks. “All we need is rock salt. And cream and sugar.”

  “Now?” his mother says. “I just went to the grocery store.”

  “Time is of the essence,” he says.

  His mother smiles. Gets her purse. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she says.

  But she doesn’t come back in a jiffy. She is late. Cooper watches the road from the kitchen window. Watches and watches and watches. Watches the clock. Watches the gap in the trees. Watches the red cars and the white cars and the black cars whizz by. And one yellow car. He cannot take his eyes off the window. What if his mother got lost? What if she had an accident?

  Finally, his mother’s gray van.

  Cooper races outside. Waits until the van rolls to a stop and the door opens.

  “You were gone a long time. Eighty-nine minutes.”

  “I know it, Cooper. I had to get gas. But the gas station was all blocked off. The lady at the grocery store told me there had been a robbery, so I had to drive all the way around the lake and go to the one in New Prairie.”

  “A robbery?” He opens the cabin door for her. He has never thought about a robbery. Robbers are desperate and unpredictable. Sometimes they are armed. Another close call. He will add robberies to his list of worries. This cannot happen again. Ever.

  “But guess what else?” his mother says.

  “What else?” Cooper says as he leans on the counter and writes in his notebook,

  Sometimes the most dangerous things are the things you never think of.

  His mother pulls a thin newspaper from one of the grocery bags. The North Lakes News. “Here’s a whole calendar of things to do up here. They’re having turtle races on the Fourth of July.” She looks back at the newspaper. “Wow, I guess that’s the week after next, isn’t it? Remember how much fun those used to be? Maybe you and Caddie can go.”

  “Turtle races are an oxymoron,” Cooper says, slipping his notebook back into his pocket.

  “That’s why they’re so much fun,” his mother says, patting him on the shoulder.

  She unpacks the ice cream supplies. “Let’s get to work. Cooper, you can be the official crank turner. The lady in the check-out explained the whole process. She said she makes ice cream for her grandchildren all the time.”

  His mother rinses the blackberries. Pats them dry. She pours cream and sugar and berries into the metal container. Cooper scoops the ice. “Right there,” his mother says, and Cooper carefully fills the gap between the metal container and the wooden bucket with ice and rock salt.

  Caddie comes into the kitchen. Pours herself a bowl of cold cereal and reads The North Lakes News while she watches.

  “Now it’s up to you,” his mother tells him.

  Turn, turn, turn. Wait, wait, wait. Turn, turn, turn.

  “Oh, boy,” Caddie says. “Turtle races on the Fourth of July.”

  “You can take Cooper,” their mother says.

  “I can’t wait,” Caddie says. She slurps the milk in her bowl. “How long does this ice-cream-making business take?” She sets her empty bowl in the sink. Leaves the kitchen, already bored silly. “I’m going to the beach.”

  Turn, turn . . .

  “Maybe Dad’ll go swimming with me.”

  Stop.

  “Dad’s not here,” their mother calls to Caddie. She doesn’t look up. Not even when Caddie comes back in the kitchen with a frown on her face. She is too busy adding more rock salt to the bucket to look up. “He had to go back home.”

  Caddie slumps against the doorframe. “But he just got here.”

  “He forgot about something at work.”

  “Why didn’t he say goodbye?”

  Cooper knows why The Father left. Knows why The Father didn’t say goodbye. Knows it has nothing to do with work. He pushes on the crank. It barely moves.

  “He left really early. I’m sure he didn’t want to wake you.”

  “It was still dark out,” Cooper says.

  It was still dark out. Cooper isn’t lying. But he is lying.

  Sometimes keeping the truth a secret is the same thing as telling a lie.

  His heart feels heavy. As heavy as the bucket of blackberries.

  Now his mother looks at him. Worried. “Did you hear him? Did he wake you up?”

  Cooper shakes his head. He knows he’s telling another lie while he tries his best to tell the truth. “I heard his car.”

  His mother’s eyes rest on his face for a long time. He can see his mother wonder if Cooper heard them talking. He can see her sadness. He can see her hide her secrets, and he wonders if she can see him hide his.

  “I can’t turn the crank anymore. It’s stuck,” he says.

  “That just means it’s done,” his mother says, suddenly smiling.

  Cooper lifts up the crank. Removes the cover of the bucket, and he and his mother peer into the ice cream maker like they’re looking into a deep hole, trying to see the bottom. And there it is. Ice cream. Real ice cream. Like magic. Thick yellow-white ice cream with dark streaks and chunks of blackberries.

  “Look at that,” his mother says.

  “Look at that,” Cooper says. And he wishes Caddie and his mother liked ice cream as much as he does so they could forget that The Father drove away in the darkest part of the morning without saying goodbye. Not even to their mother.

  Caddie looks into the bucket too. “Wow,” she says.

  Cooper sticks his finger in the ice cream like a hook and puts a glob in his mouth. Swirls it with his tongue and swallows. “Mr. Bell was right. This is the best ice cream I’ve ever eaten in my whole life.”

  Caddie gets three spoons from the drawer, hands them out like tickets. Their mother scoops the ice cream into bowls, and they stand at the kitchen counter and eat ice cream. Bite after bite. They eat the blackberry ice cream until it is all gone.

  “I can’t believe we did that,” Caddie says, scraping her spoon against the empty metal bucket. “If Dad were here, he’d be mad.”

  Nobody says anything.

  Their mother doesn’t even say, “Now, Caddie.”

  Cooper looks away. Looks at the clock. The tick, tick, tick of the second hand is the only sound.

  Maybe his mother finally sees that everything Caddie says is getting more and more believable every day.

  Eleven seconds is an eternity in the silence.

  A silence too heavy for the muscles in Cooper’s brain.

  Twelve, thirteen. “Let’s play Monopoly,” Cooper says.

  “Finally, something I want to do,” Caddie says.

  “That would be fun,” says their mother.

  “I’ll be the banker,” says Cooper.

  He runs to the armoire. Looks up. Spots Monopoly between the Scrabble game and the stack of jigsaw puzzles. Birds of the World catches his eye. He pictures
the free-falling spill of Flags of the World. Knows the finished flag puzzle sits on the coffee table behind him. Perfect and untouched. No, no, no. He does not want to go anywhere near the armoire.

  “Caddie, can you get it?”

  “What am I, your personal maid?”

  Caddie rolls her eyes and sighs all at once. She sets the game on the dining room table. Before Cooper sits down, she has grabbed the colorful stack of Monopoly money. “I’ll organize it, Coop,” she says. “Otherwise, we’ll be here forever. You can still be the banker.”

  Caddie lays the money in neat piles in front of Cooper. Rolls the die. No, not die—dice. Dice. Dice. Dice. Even if it is only one.

  When they take a break for dinner, Cooper owns Park Place and twelve hotels. He lines up his money by color.

  “Now it’s time for s’more ice cream,” he says. “Get it?”

  “You’re crazy,” Caddie says.

  “I know,” Cooper says.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Caddie says.

  “I know,” Cooper says again.

  Caddie puts her hand on Cooper’s head. Musses his hair. “I get to crank it this time,” Caddie says.

  Cooper breaks up the graham crackers. His mother cuts up the sticky marshmallows. Cooper stacks the squares of the chocolate bar in a perfect chocolate tower.

  Caddie cranks the ice cream for one minute and eighteen seconds. “This is boring,” she says. She keeps cranking, for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. “I can’t take this anymore.”

  “I can,” Cooper says. He cranks and cranks the ice cream. Switches hands and cranks and cranks and cranks. Switches hands again. He cranks and cranks until the crank can’t budge another millimeter. “I think it’s done,” he says.

  They decide to eat s’more ice cream first, and then they have tuna fish sandwiches for dessert. Cooper is surprised. Dinner is out of order. He feels uneasy, but That Boy must not be paying attention.

  “I can’t eat another bite,” Caddie says.

  “Me either,” their mother says.

  “I can,” Cooper says.

  “Let’s finish the game,” Caddie says.

  They play Monopoly into the night. Their mother goes bankrupt and picks up her knitting. “I think I’ll call it a day.”

  Caddie passes Go. Cooper counts out the money. Face up. He matches the colors and the edges. “One, two, three . . .”

  “Cooper,” Caddie says. “Don’t.”

  Cooper counts as fast as he can.

  Caddie wins and it’s time for bed.

  Cooper holds out his hand to Caddie. She takes his hand in hers. Reluctantly. Raises an eyebrow. “It was an honor to do business with you today,” he says, bowing.

  “Good night, Cooper,” Caddie says.

  Cooper goes into his room and looks at his calendar. He puts a checkmark on today. Sixty-seven days to go. Sixty-seven days to think happy thoughts. Only sixty-seven long days. He gives Amicus a food nugget. Amicus the Great is a happy thought. “You’re a good, brave boy and I love you.”

  He reaches for his toes and sends the sand to the floor and then he flops backward on his bed. His right arm aches from cranking the crank. His stomach hurts. He is too tired to read. Too tired to write in his notebook. But he knows he is not as tired as old Mr. Bell.

  Caddie’s footsteps creak in the hallway.

  “Caddie?” he calls.

  She stops. Opens his bedroom door. Peeks her head in. “What?”

  “Let’s take him some ice cream.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Bell.”

  “I guess,” she says. “We’ll have to make more. You ate it all.”

  “That’s okay. My arm hurts, but I’m up to it.”

  Caddie sniffs. Wrinkles her nose and sniffs again. “You know your room stinks.” She walks up to Amicus. Eye-to-eye. “I think it’s time to clean his aquarium.”

  “You hurt his feelings,” Cooper says.

  “That’s not possible. He’s a reptile.”

  “He’s an amphibian.”

  “So he’s an amphibian, then. He still doesn’t have any feelings.”

  “How do you know? His heart is bigger than ours.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “We only have two chambers. He has three.” Cooper watches Caddie tap on the glass. “Tell him you’re sorry,” he says. “And give him a food nugget. He deserves it.”

  Caddie rolls her eyes. Opens the food jar. “I’m sorry,” she says to the glass. She lifts the screen cover, drops a food nugget on Amicus’s head. “There you go, Amicus.”

  “You mean, Amicus the Great.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since he proved his bravery in the midst of battle.”

  Caddie stares at Amicus. Smiles without rolling her eyes. Sighs gently. “You know what, Coop?”

  “What?”

  “You hardly did anything weird all day.”

  Cooper feels his heart shiver. It feels like his birthday. But it is not his birthday. And he cannot pretend it is. Cannot pretend it is easy to not do anything weird.

  Caddie can’t see where he has stuffed his thoughts and his worries. But Cooper knows where they are. Always knows where they are. He feels his secrets in his pockets, between his toes, crammed inside his head. Filling up the empty spaces between his ideas and his words. Happy thoughts are hard. Exhausting. Mind-boggling. Happy thoughts are harder than counting and touching and reading three times three.

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Really.”

  Cooper smiles. A true smile. He smiles because he cannot stop the smile. He is too exhausted to stop the smile. He smiles because everything Caddie says is getting more and more believable every day. He swears he can feel his cheeks lift into the air.

  Today he is weak enough to let himself smile.

  Competitions

  “Where did you get your turtle?” Caddie asks a lady in orange shorts and giant sunglasses holding a mud turtle with just the fingertips of both hands.

  “Over there,” the lady says, but Cooper doesn’t look in the direction she points. He’s watching the kids find their places around the circle, the big green circle painted in the center of the parking lot of DJ’s Liquors. In the center of the circle is a painting of a mud turtle and the word “WINNER.” The paint is wearing off, but Cooper knows what it says.

  If you don’t bring your own turtle, you must rent one for five dollars, and if you don’t keep it, or step on it, then you get half your money back. Kinosteridae are omnivorous and will eat a small tadpole or frog. As long as Amicus is a living thing, Cooper knows he will not keep a mud turtle as a pet. And he will be very careful not to step on one.

  A little girl with pigtails and purple balls the size of suckers in her hair hugs her turtle. He is injured. His shell is chipped. She kisses its pointed green nose. Holds it up to her father. “Don’t be scared, Daddy. He’s supposed to be ugly.” Her father pulls a clump of tissues from his pocket. Wipes the little girl’s mouth. Wipes his hands.

  Cooper circles the crowd. Crouches by bare knees and strollers. When the whistle blows, turtle holders let go. Bales and bales of turtles crawl in different directions. They leave trickles of water in their paths. People shout and laugh and point. Cooper now understands the meaning of cacophony. He thinks of gym class. Thinks of dodgeball. He remembers the gym teacher pointing at the sidelines with a long waggling finger and a mad face. Cooper knows the turtles are embarrassed. Ashamed. They don’t know what to do. They don’t know the rules. He covers his ears.

  A turtle crawls across the green edge of the circle, the wrong way. It crawls fast, through everyone’s legs, and bumps into Cooper’s tennis shoe. Its shell is chipped. Cooper picks up the turtle with both hands and holds it close to his chest. “You’re not ugly,” he says.

  Long, hairy legs in shorts stride toward Cooper. He looks up.

  “That’s not yours,” says the man with the clump of tissues still clenched in his hand.r />
  “I know,” Cooper says. “He’s lost.”

  “He is not lost,” the man says. “He belongs to my daughter.”

  The little girl reaches for the turtle. Cries. “That’s mine.”

  Cooper hugs the turtle. Whispers, “I’m sorry.” He puts the turtle on the ground. Backs up, out of the crowd, past the angled yellow lines of the parking lot, and sits on the curb. Sits far away from the painted circle. And pulls out his notebook.

  Making fun of something is different from having fun.

  “Cooper!” Caddie’s mad voice shouts. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Caddie grabs his arm. “You have to rent a turtle.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You have to,” Caddie says. “Mom said. And here’s five dollars.” Caddie holds out five one-dollar bills.

  “Here are,” he says.

  “Geez, Cooper.” Caddie shakes her head. “And you have to hurry. Mom will be back for us soon. You already missed the first race.”

  Cooper shakes his head too. He didn’t miss the first race. He saw the injured turtle get lost and crawl in the wrong direction. He does not want to be here. Does not want to feel embarrassed for the turtles.

  “You have to,” Caddie says. She shoves the money into his hand. The bills are brand new. Crisp and sharp. He wants to count them. Wants to touch the four pointed corners . . .

  “Don’t worry, Coop. I already put it in order for you.”

  He fans the edges of the bills. She did it right. She is a good sister. “Let’s buy ice cream, okay?”

  “No, Cooper. You’ve had enough ice cream to last a lifetime. C’mon.”

  “Let’s go on the Whirly Bird.”

  “Rides make me sick. You know that. Besides, this’ll be fun for you. But they’re almost out of turtles.”

  Caddie pulls Cooper all the way to the picnic area, under a big white tent. Plastic ice cream buckets cover the ground. Kicked on their sides. Upside down. The grass is stomped on, bright green and muddy. “The guy said he’d save you one. His name is Todd and he’s really nice. And cute.”

  Cooper does not care about cute, but that word, Todd, sounds sharp. Urgent. And something else. Cooper must pay attention.

  Only two turtles remain in the last bucket, scraping their claws against the plastic prison, crawling over each other like the lobsters in the tank at the grocery store at home. Cooper imagines the tank tipped over, spilling water and lobsters across the floor. Lobsters crawling their way to freedom.