flowers.
I never liked the Henrys, but that night I loved their pool, and now I’m thinking of that park with the pools in Barcelona, which was past the Gothic quarter, up near the arch and the bocce pits, where some guy with a hat took my dad aside and said something about the thievery of the Moors. “That can’t be right,” my mother said, but Dad stood by his translation, Dad said he knew what he’d been told but that didn’t mean that he believed it, and then we were still walking, or maybe we had turned and were headed back, but suddenly there we were in this park of a million water fountains and a million kids running and splashingin their underwear. There was this bald guy wearing bright feathers for hair. There was this other guy with a pink scarf who was making music with a horn so long that it hit the ground and turned up and kept rising.
Deeper in on the path that wound up and down by all those millions of pools was a gazebo, maybe the size of Miss Martine’s, but higher off the ground, and right there was dancing. It was like the dancers used their feet to dust the floor, like their only words were the words of the song that played from the boom box some kid had brought along. I watched them for a long time.
I was watching the dancers when my parents drifted away. I turned and didn’t see them and walked under some trees, and up a pile of steps, and through this sculpture where dragons carved of stone sat spraying water high, and then I went down the stones, and under some flowered trees and over past some cats. I finally found them down where a wedding was going on, or had already happened, my mother sitting on abench, my dad beside her, both of them watching this bride and her groom at the edge of a pond where the water was so still I could have sworn it was a mirror. I saw my mom pull a flower straight out of a tree. I saw her stand, take the flower to the bride, and bow her head. I saw her go back to the bench and sit down with my dad and ask him, “Would you marry me again, Jimmy? Would you?”
“In a heartbeat,” he said, “and you know it.”
“I wouldn’t take any of it back,” Mom said, and maybe I don’t know how you put regret inside a painting, maybe I can’t figure out Miss Martine, maybe I can’t really save my dad from sadness, but maybe so much time goes by that you start to understand how beauty and sadness can both live in one place. My eyes are heavy and the air is still hot. I may already be dreaming.
Chapter Ninteen
S ammy sits on top of two fat phone books, and now he points his fork straight down like a pole and jiggles the French toast around until a piece breaks off. He swishes it through a pool of syrup.
“You’re way early, aren’t you, Sammy?” I ask, looking at Dad.
“My dad brought me.”
“Your dad brought you?”
“Yeah. He was going to the airport.” Sammy’s gota Phillies shirt on and a pair of red shorts. His light-up sneaks are kicking at the air above the floor.
“How’s my daughter detective?” Finally Dad says something, holding a plate toward me that has just one piece of French toast. “There’s plenty more,” he says, “if you want it.”
“This is enough.” I sigh, taking my place between Sammy and Dad, pushing my hair back from my face.
“Sammy’s been telling me stories,” Dad says.
“Uh-huh.” The French toast is good.
“Super bullet yellow bird,” Sammy says. He points his fork upright and starts spinning it around, throwing globs of buttery syrup everywhere.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“ Brrrrrrrrrr ,” Sammy says, loud as a drill. “ Brrrrrrrrrrrr .” He’s stabbing his fork at every last open spot of air, his lower lip jutting out and vibrating. I stare at him, wondering what he’s seen, if the finch hammers at his window, too.
“I think Katie gets the idea,” Dad says, touching Sammy’s hand with his own to chill the demonstration.
“Where’s the bird, Sammy?” I ask him.
“Outside.”
I never liked the Henrys, but that night I loved their pool, and now I’m thinking of that park with the pools in Barcelona, which was past the Gothic quarter, up near the arch and the bocce pits, where some guy with a hat took my dad aside and said something about the thievery of the Moors. “That can’t be right,” my mother said, but Dad stood by his translation, Dad said he knew what he’d been told but that didn’t mean that he believed it, and then we were still walking, or maybe we had turned and were headed back, but suddenly there we were in this park of a million water fountains and a million kids running and splashingin their underwear. There was this bald guy wearing bright feathers for hair. There was this other guy with a pink scarf who was making music with a horn so long that it hit the ground and turned up and kept rising.
Deeper in on the path that wound up and down by all those millions of pools was a gazebo, maybe the size of Miss Martine’s, but higher off the ground, and right there was dancing. It was like the dancers used their feet to dust the floor, like their only words were the words of the song that played from the boom box some kid had brought along. I watched them for a long time.
I was watching the dancers when my parents drifted away. I turned and didn’t see them and walked under some trees, and up a pile of steps, and through this sculpture where dragons carved of stone sat spraying water high, and then I went down the stones, and under some flowered trees and over past some cats. I finally found them down where a wedding was going on, or had already happened, my mother sitting on abench, my dad beside her, both of them watching this bride and her groom at the edge of a pond where the water was so still I could have sworn it was a mirror. I saw my mom pull a flower straight out of a tree. I saw her stand, take the flower to the bride, and bow her head. I saw her go back to the bench and sit down with my dad and ask him, “Would you marry me again, Jimmy? Would you?”
“In a heartbeat,” he said, “and you know it.”
“I wouldn’t take any of it back,” Mom said, and maybe I don’t know how you put regret inside a painting, maybe I can’t figure out Miss Martine, maybe I can’t really save my dad from sadness, but maybe so much time goes by that you start to understand how beauty and sadness can both live in one place. My eyes are heavy and the air is still hot. I may already be dreaming.
Chapter Ninteen
S ammy sits on top of two fat phone books, and now he points his fork straight down like a pole and jiggles the French toast around until a piece breaks off. He swishes it through a pool of syrup.
“You’re way early, aren’t you, Sammy?” I ask, looking at Dad.
“My dad brought me.”
“Your dad brought you?”
“Yeah. He was going to the airport.” Sammy’s gota Phillies shirt on and a pair of red shorts. His light-up sneaks are kicking at the air above the floor.
“How’s my daughter detective?” Finally Dad says something, holding a plate toward me that has just one piece of French toast. “There’s plenty more,” he says, “if you want it.”
“This is enough.” I sigh, taking my place between Sammy and Dad, pushing my hair back from my face.
“Sammy’s been telling me stories,” Dad says.
“Uh-huh.” The French toast is good.
“Super bullet yellow bird,” Sammy says. He points his fork upright and starts spinning it around, throwing globs of buttery syrup everywhere.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“ Brrrrrrrrrr ,” Sammy says, loud as a drill. “ Brrrrrrrrrrrr .” He’s stabbing his fork at every last open spot of air, his lower lip jutting out and vibrating. I stare at him, wondering what he’s seen, if the finch hammers at his window, too.
“I think Katie gets the idea,” Dad says, touching Sammy’s hand with his own to chill the demonstration.
“Where’s the bird, Sammy?” I ask him.
“Outside.”
Similar Books
