Freaky Green Eyes Page 7

  “Go on! Go home.”

  Running back to the Blounts’ house, I felt so happy.

  It was a Freaky Green Eyes rush, like adrenaline.

  Next morning when the cry went up from the Blount brothers that someone had sabotaged their private zoo, suspicion fell immediately on me, so I shrugged and admitted it.

  “Yes, I did it. I opened the cages.”

  Everybody stared at me. The Blounts, my father, Samantha.

  Looking at me like I was some kind of criminal? I just laughed.

  Sean said angrily, “You had no right! Those animals were ours.”

  It’s Freaky’s strategy to be prepared. I’d been rehearsing what I would say. I stood with my hands on my hips and my chin uplifted and said calmly, “Those animals were not yours—they’re wild animals. They did not belong to you.”

  An ugly scene followed. I didn’t expect anybody to congratulate me, but I hadn’t expected the Blounts to be so angry. I knew that Sean and Chris would be livid, but I believed that mature persons would react differently, yet they didn’t. I could see I’d made a false calculation. Still, I tried to maintain my poise. I said, “I let the animals go because it’s illegal to keep wild animals in cages, and it’s cruel, and I’m not sorry.”

  Dad said, “Francesca, apologize to these people. Apologize now.”

  “Dad, I can’t. I’m not sorry.”

  “I told you: apologize. Now.”

  I guess it was that that infuriated Dad. Because I was being Freaky-stubborn saying, “I can’t. I won’t. I did the right thing, and I’m not sorry.”

  Dad was getting pretty upset. Mr. Blount saw and tried to calm him. “Reid, it’s all right. The boys can replenish their zoo—there are plenty more animals in these woods—” but Dad kept interrupting, telling me to apologize, and I had to shake my head no, I could not, and finally Dad lost control, and grabbed hold of my arm and shook, shook, shook me so hard my teeth rattled in my head. “Damn you. I’m telling you. Apologize to these people, Francesca, or I’ll break every bone in your miserable body!”

  “Reid, no! Don’t—”

  “No, Reid—please!”

  Both the Blounts intervened, alarmed. Mr. Blount tugged at my father’s fingers until he released me, and I stumbled from the room crying.

  Dad drove us back to Yarrow Heights that morning.

  Our Fourth of July visit to Cape Flattery came to an abrupt end.

  In the car, there were hours of stony silence. Not even the radio or a CD. Samantha, sitting beside Dad in the front, finished one Nancy Drew novel and began another. Only a few times she dared to glance back at her disgraced older sister, who lay on the backseat with a damp cloth over her face, trying not to whimper in pain. My head was pounding, my neck and even my upper spine were thrumming with pain. All I knew was that Freaky had done the right thing, and Freaky had to accept punishment for doing it.

  Seeing the raccoons lumber away into the woods. Seeing the hare shaking free of his trance. The fox cub, sniffing and cautious. And the owl with his soft gray feathers and fierce staring gaze at last flying away . . .

  Yes, you have to accept punishment sometimes for doing what is right.

  SEVEN

  shame

  Break every bone in your body.

  Every bone in your miserable body.

  Those nights I woke every hour hearing my father’s voice close above me. Sweaty and my heart pumping not in Freaky-elation but in panic. I felt the fingers digging into my arms in hatred of my stubborn flesh. I tasted the shame of that spectacle like something rotted and black in my mouth. And the eyes of others, staring. And my own eyes, staring.

  It hadn’t been the first time. But it was the first time I’d been disciplined before strangers.

  Reid, don’t. Don’t hurt her. Reid . . .

  Keep out of this. She has to be disciplined. Look at her—she doesn’t even cry.

  She’s terrified, Reid. She can’t cry. . . .

  Get the hell away. A fine mothering job you’ve done.

  I woke and couldn’t remember. What I remembered was a dream, wasn’t it? An ugly dream. And sometimes, though I was conscious, I couldn’t move my arms or legs, only my eyes, I could open my eyes and I could see the hazy proportions of the room (but which room was it? Which bed was this?), but I couldn’t move, almost I could not breathe. She doesn’t mean it, darling. She’s only two. She can’t reason or think, darling. She can’t help soiling herself if she’s scared. She isn’t doing it deliberately. She’s only two. . . . I shut my eyes and slept.

  Days passed. Dad refused to speak with me.

  If we were in the same room together, he looked through me. He made a show of hugging and kissing Samantha, who leaped into his arms. “Daddy! Are you going away again?” But of course Dad was going away, to St. Louis. Baseball, a doubleheader. Which meant that Mom would be returning, and Mom did return, arriving with Rabbit in the station wagon, and I wanted to run with Samantha to greet them, but I kept my distance, I was wary. She will know, seeing me. At once she will know.

  I wore shirts with sleeves that drooped past my elbows. When a shaft of light pierced my eyes, set my head throbbing again, and my neck and upper spine, I held myself rigid, I gritted my teeth and didn’t cry aloud. I raided Mom’s medicine cabinet for extra strength Tylenol. I stole three capsules of something prescribed for “muscle spasm pain” but decided not to take them—I might like what they did for me too much.

  Daddy I can’t. I can’t apologize. Daddy please understand, why can’t you understand.

  Daddy?

  We all watched Dad on TV. Mom, Samantha, and me. And Rabbit.

  We were never nervous on Dad’s account—he was so assured and spoke so well. (Unlike his co-sportscasters.) The other men were intelligent and well-informed, knew players’ histories, statistics, etc., but Dad knew other, more personal things. He could discuss players’ individual strategies on the field, and pregame anxiety, and how it feels to be injured and expelled from the game while your teammates continue, and win. Dad interviewed a twenty-two-year-old pitcher from the Dominican Republic who spoke in halting English, and Dad was as enthusiastic and funny with him as if they’d known each other for a long time, and the interview concluded on the topic of the pitcher’s youth, and Dad said, “Your generation that’s inheriting the twenty-first century from us, you’ll have challenges, but you have the guts and brains to deal with them. I think you young people are terrific. Good luck!” He shook hands with the young athlete, and I choked back tears—it was like Dad was shaking hands with me. I felt this was a signal to me: he knew I was watching and he’d forgiven me.

  After Cape Flattery, Dad had all but ignored me. Now I felt there was a change. I could hardly breathe, I was so happy.

  Mom had been wiping at her eyes during the interview, too. When it was over, she said, “Well. Your father is magic, isn’t he?” But her voice was wistful, and I saw that she was turning the silver ring around her finger.

  It was two weeks, three days after Cape Flattery when Dad returned from St. Louis. The games had gone well, TV ratings were high. Dad called happily to Samantha and me, “Girls! Tell me you missed your poor old dad.” It was the first time Dad had looked me in the face since that morning at the Blounts’. I saw that yes, he’d forgiven me. I laughed and hugged him. I began to cry, I was so happy.

  Dad was like that. He’d flare up in anger and say things he didn’t mean; then he’d go away, and when he returned, it was as if nothing was wrong. He never said he forgave us, or he’d stopped being angry. He just laughed and forgot. And expected you to forget.

  EIGHT

  skagit harbor: july 23

  When Dad returned from St. Louis, there was a new atmosphere in the house. As if Dad and Mom were determined to be happy together, or to try. I heard them talking earnestly together in their bedroom at the far end of the hall. Not words but the sounds of words, a mysterious murmur.

  Once, I heard what sounded like Mom s
obbing—but no, it must have been Mom laughing.

  I think.

  The Freaky-urge came to me to eavesdrop. Find out all you can. Knowledge is power. But I hesitated. I was fearful of being caught.

  Dad announced at breakfast that he’d be in New York City for a few days. Then he winked at Samantha and me as if he had a surprise for us, and said, “Your mother has some news for you, girls.”

  And Mom said, smiling, nervous and excited, “That’s right. We’re going to Skagit Harbor tomorrow.”

  I looked at Dad. For a moment I felt almost a stab of fear.

  But Dad was smiling, pleased with himself. He was letting his girls go. He was making a present of Skagit Harbor to Samantha and me, and he was making a present of Samantha and me to Mom.

  Why? Because he can. Because it’s in his power.

  Samantha squealed with excitement. (I wished she wouldn’t! I knew that Dad was watching us.) Coolly, I asked, “How long will we be there, Mom?” This was a neutral question. I knew Dad would approve.

  Mom blinked at me, smiling. She was turning the silver ring round and round her finger. She glanced at Dad, who appeared to be absorbed in TV news. Mom said, “How long? I—don’t know, exactly.” I guessed that the decision was Dad’s and that Mom didn’t know yet.

  Skagit Harbor! I hadn’t been there since, it must’ve been before Forrester. I was in eighth grade, maybe. And Samantha had been just a little girl.

  Dad hadn’t come with us then, either. Or Todd.

  Funny I couldn’t remember people, much. It’s like you use your eyes to see but you never see yourself, so what you see, places especially, are vivid in your memory, but not you, yourself. And you see your mom and dad all the time, it’s hard to remember what they used to look like. Except for photographs, a person’s memory would be vague and misty.

  But I remembered Skagit Harbor really well. It was an old fishing village on the Skagit River north and east of Puget Sound. West of the Cascade Mountains. An hour from Seattle, and another hour’s drive and you’d be in British Columbia, Canada. Farmland, but also wilderness. Grazing cattle and horses but also miles of evergreens, blue spruce.

  Mom was saying that local people in the village, especially fishermen, were having a hard time economically. But there was so much civic pride, Skagit Harbor citizens loved where they lived and were proud of their houses and gardens, even when they didn’t have a lot of money. “See? It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Mom kept saying as she drove along Main Street to a hilly street called Harbor, and around and past First, Second, Third Streets. Samantha and I stared and stared. You could see how carefully the old Victorian houses and buildings had been preserved, even when they were a little shabby and run-down. Main Street looked prosperous, though: there were a half dozen new galleries and restaurants. Mom pointed out the Orca Gallery, a small storefront, which she said was carrying some of her new work.

  At the eastern end of town, on the water, was a small harbor of rugged-looking old fishing boats and rusted barges, and at the other end of town there was a small marina of sailboats, speedboats, and yachts, which mostly belonged to summer residents, Mom said. On a hill above Harbor Street was the Skagit County Historic Museum, an old stone building like a monument to another century. There were boarded-up mills, and a fishery still in operation, and an open space that was the site of the SKAGIT HARBOR FARMERS’ MARKET SAT/SUN. We drove past Hogan’s Mills, where Mom said she bought just about all her household supplies. We drove past a sprawling old Victorian house painted purple whose veranda and front lawn were crowded with “antiques” and “art”—like reindeer made of crinkly silver material with strings of glitter in their antlers, and life-size human figures made of wire hangers. We drove past the Skagit Harbor Volunteer Fire Department, where men, some of them shirtless, were hosing down their fire truck, and Mom tapped her horn and the men waved at her. Mom said, “Everybody knows everybody else in Skagit Harbor.”

  Not exactly like Yarrow Heights.

  At home in Yarrow Heights, nobody is ever outside where you might see them, let alone tap your horn and say hello. But in Skagit Harbor it was surprising how many people were outside, at about eleven A.M. on a weekday morning. We saw people working in gardens, trimming fruit trees (there were gnarled old apple trees in the front yards of some houses, as if this part of town had been a big orchard at one time), repairing cars and pickups in the street, playing with children. Lots of children. And dogs trotting loose. (Rabbit was quivering with excitement, leaning out a rear window and barking.) We passed a few small churches and cemeteries, a cluster of mobile homes (“Not ‘trailers,’ girls, remember: ‘mobile homes’”), and even a big old fishing boat that looked as if it had been swept up from the river onto land in a flood, and left there, to be painted robin’s-egg blue and converted into a house: the deck was a veranda crowded with furniture and children’s toys and a profusion of morning glory vines. On the veranda was a pigtailed woman of about Mom’s age with two small children and a Border collie, and Mom slowed the station wagon here, too, to wave and call out, “Hi there!” It was startling to hear a stranger call back, “Krista, hi!” with such fond familiarity. Mom said, driving on, “That’s Melanie. She’s a potter, like I’m trying to be. She’s a terrific friend and neighbor.”

  I felt a small stab of jealousy. It was childish, I know. But I seemed to hear Mom’s words as Dad might hear them, and I felt Dad’s hurt. You have no right to love strangers.

  Samantha was thrilled with the boat. She wished we could all live in a boat, on land.

  Deer Point Road, which Mom jokingly called the wrong side of the tracks, was a hilly, unpaved road at the edge of Skagit Harbor. Beyond was the open countryside, dense with evergreens. Most of the houses on this road were small summer cottages and cabins painted eye-catching colors—dark gold, cobalt blue, lime green, lavender, even poppy orange. Mom’s cabin, which I remembered as pretty plain and drab, had been painted maroon, with bright-yellow sunflowers like smiling faces on the shutters and along the edge of the steep-pitched roof. (“Well, I didn’t do all the painting myself. I had a little help from friends and neighbors.”) There was just a single front window in the cabin, a square pane of glass, and behind it was a tall clay vase Mom had made back in Yarrow Heights, filled with dried goldenrod and broom sage.

  “Oh, Mom! It’s so pretty.” Samantha was sounding wistful. “Like a dollhouse.”

  Mom laughed. “Yes, it’s about that size.”

  Dad had said dismissively that the cabin was no larger than our living room at home, but in fact it was smaller. I felt a twinge of claustrophobia. Not wanting to be too close to anybody, and wanting my own space. Though I hated the big old mausoleum-museum we lived in, at least it had space.

  In Mom’s narrow front yard was an ancient box elder that loomed over the cabin. Mom owned only about an acre of land, approximately half of it cultivated and the rest an open meadow filled with blooming wildflowers, Queen Anne’s lace, and chicory. Mom didn’t have a real driveway, only a rutted lane that came to an abrupt end at a row of staked tomato plants. She didn’t have a garage, either, but an old stable she used for storage. There was another equally old, more dilapidated building, a hay barn, to the rear of the stable, which was actually on someone else’s property but looked as if it might belong to Mom, and at the peak of the barn roof was a rooster weather vane.

  That rooster! Suddenly I remembered. I’d been pretty young when Mom had first brought me here, and I’d made up some stories about that rooster, which was made of copper. There were roosters in the neighborhood that crowed at dawn, but to me it was the rooster on the barn roof that was crowing. Mom had pretended she’d believed me. “Yes, Francesca. He’s the first to crow. He’s the loudest.”

  There was my magic rooster, after so long. I’d grown up, nearly, while the rooster was still on the roof as if nothing much had changed. The barn was really old, with a sagging roof, but somebody had tried to repair it with unpainted boards. I wanted to po
int out my rooster to Mom and Samantha, but I felt shy suddenly.

  Mom was laughing like a little girl, unlocking the cabin to let us inside. “I hope it doesn’t smell stuffy. This is my studio, too.” The interior of the cabin was like Mom’s studio at home except cozier, with more furnishings. There was a yellow-striped sofa bed, and there were cane-backed chairs Mom had painted green, blue, and red herself, bought at the outdoor “antique shop” we’d just passed. There was a beautiful coarsely woven hemp carpet on the floor, and there were wall hangings Mom had made herself this summer, and clay pots, animal figures, and needlepoint designs. There was a skylight overhead, and a loft with a railing where Samantha and I would be sleeping together in a double bed with an old brass headboard; to get to the loft, we had to climb a ladder. I said, “Mom, this is so cool. I love it!”

  I spoke quickly. Before I heard Dad’s sneering voice in my ear. Your mother’s in her own zone now. More and more. Where you’ll find her.

  NINE

  skagit harbor: july 24–27

  Mom said, “I feel so at peace here. The first thing I hear is roosters crowing, from that farm up the road. Sometimes I get up as early as six thirty A.M. If the mist isn’t too bad, I take Rabbit out right away, down to the harbor and back. He loves it here too.”

  It was obvious Rabbit loved Skagit Harbor. Most of the time Mom let him run loose here, which was forbidden in Yarrow Heights. Inside Mom’s little cabin, Rabbit could relax knowing that no one would scold him or allow him to know how much he was disliked.

  Mom’s schedule was: work in her studio through the morning, then lunch and errands in town; impromptu visits with friends; late-afternoon work in her studio, and household tasks; getting together casually in the evening with friends and neighbors. “Nothing is very formal here in Skagit Harbor, as you can imagine.” Mom wore funky old paint-stained khaki shorts or jeans; pullover shirts; running shoes or sandals, or she went barefoot. She was long legged and had a warm golden tan, and her hair was cut short and spiky, pale red streaked with a beautiful silvery gray. She looked so happy most of the time, you’d almost have thought she was a college girl, brimming with energy and enthusiasm. She looked so free. Twyla once said It’s weird to think, isn’t it, that we wouldn’t be friends with most of the people in our families if we weren’t related. I’d agreed with Twyla at the time, but now I wasn’t so sure.