“And it’s not bullshit?” asks Jasper. He looks at my shocked expression and says, “What? Because I saidbullshit? That’s nothing. I know all the swears. Ass, fuck, butt…”
I turn away so he can’t see how hard I’m laughing. Once I’ve collected myself, I tell him I don’t think it’s bullshit. I think it’s real. We make our way to the edge of the dock with our handfuls of stones, and I ask him if he knows how to throw them so they will skip.
“Not really. I did it once with my dad, but he didn’t know what he was doing. He’s kind of incompetent. I think that’s why my mom wanted to come here. She’s at the end of her rope.”
“Oh, boy. That sounds hard,” I say. This kid is precocious, and whatever is happening within his family, he is clearly tuned in to it without completely understanding it. I think of myself at his age—seven—and wonder how much I was absorbing and comprehending. That was the year my father retired and my mom went back to work full-time. That summer was tense, and my mother abruptly left Catwood Pond halfway through July. I missed her terribly. In later years, when she only came up for a week each summer, the missing morphed into resentment. It’s only now occurring to me that maybe I should have been proud of her.
Jasper and I look out at the pond. I show him how to cock his wrist so that the stone will fly at an angle that will allow it to bounce along the surface of the water. He gives it a go. His first stone plunks heavily and sinks. His next few attempts do the same. But on his fifth or sixth try, his stone hits the water and flies, skipping twice more before it disappears into the depths.
He gasps.
“You did it, Jasper.”
“I did.” He seems shocked. “I thought maybe you were messing with me. I didn’t think it would actually work.”
“I wouldn’t mess with you.”
He looks at me with circumspection and then seems to accept my statement as genuine.
I throw one of my stones, and we both watch as it skips seven times before easing gently into the water.
“This place is cool,” he says, pocketing the rest of his stones as if they’re worth something.
Just then, his mother comes around the corner of the boathouse. Her eyes are red, but she looks rejuvenated. She is carrying herself differently, and her energy has shifted completely.
“Jas, you ready to go?”
Jasper doesn’t answer but starts to lunge buoyantly up the path.
“Thank you. This was… Thank you,” she says to me, brimming with emotion, before she turns to follow her son.
I don’t ask her what she talked about with my father, and I know he won’t remember. The content is irrelevant at this point, but the exchange has worked its magic. I can tell she got what she was seeking. From the looks of it, she got much more.
Chapter 37
The following Tuesday, I attend Paula’s dance class as usual. No longer am I the newcomer on the edge of the group. Now, I am front and center, acting as if I were born tochassé. This has become my therapy—the one time a week when I am not responsible for anyone and I can just lose myself.
Even though it is after 8:00P.M.when we finish class, it’s still light out. I’m in no rush to get home, as Carl is watching my father for the evening. I sit on the bench outside the barn and drink some water. As I mop the sweat from my neck, I see a man coming toward me from the driveway. He’s wearing a green baseball cap that saysGARIBALDI TREE CAREand has a tennis racquet slung over his shoulder. He is sweaty, too, but in a good way. His eyes meet mine, and I’m jolted. Eye contact has never been my forte, and I suddenly wish I weren’t wearing a T-shirt with a giant cat face on it. It was my last clean shirt.
“Hey,” he says. “Cricket?”
First I worry that he is someone from the past that I can’t place, but I would remember someone this handsome. Then words start coming out of my mouth involuntarily. “Hi. Cricket. Yes. I am.”
“Max.” He touches his chest. “I’m Paula’s nephew.”
“Oh! Hey,” I say. “I don’t normally dress like this.”
“That’s a shame,” he says. I laugh and start to loosen up, one millimeter at a time.
“Are you visiting?” I ask. Duh. He’s here, isn’t he? Of course he’s visiting.
“I’ll be here on and off all summer. I have some work projects in the area.” That’s right. He’s an arborist.
I must be looking at his racquet because he says, “Do you play?”
“I used to. Not recently.”
“Want to hit sometime?”
