‘You’re sharing some gross stuff, right? We’re tight now.’ I nudge her with my elbow, and she rolls her eyes, doing a poor job of hiding her smile.
‘You and this nickname thing. Well, Hot Rod and J-Dog. Got a ring to it.’
‘Definitely. Anyways,’ I raise an expectant eyebrow. ‘Things were getting gnarly?’
‘Yeah. So. A lot of people with coeliac also have other GI shit to deal with. Pun intended. In my case, I am just very good at pretending that I am managing it and then hiding how terribly I am managing it.’ She tucks a hair behind her ear before pursing her lips. A hint of a laugh sneaks out. ‘I’m not supposed to eat a lot of things that basically trigger my … tummy issues. Now, my doctor doesn’t need to know jack, but let’s just say that I choose to take my chances with what I eat in exchange for exceptionally detailed war planning.’ She hesitates, as if she’s deciding whether or not to tell the next part, but gives in eventually. ‘Appreciate that this war planning usually involves plotting out the nearest good bathroom wherever you go. It’s like establishing a fucking military base, Rod, it is an art.’
I don’t doubt it is, except that I can’t even begin to fathomwhat the appropriate reaction is because Jordan’s started to giggle, the beginnings of hysterics. It’s not long before she gets me. Her dimples, her gasp-for-breath laugh, the crease of her eyes; it’s something magical that I haven’t ever seen before. All I know’s when you see it, you can’t help laughing with her.
‘You write battle plans,’ I wheeze. ‘I think that’s pretty artistic.’
‘Tummy-ache battle plans,’ she corrects me. She’s laughing so hard she leans on me for support, her curtain of black hair falling over my shoulder. ‘I know all the good goddamn bathrooms at the Reapers’ training facility. I went to the Super Bowl last year. Rod, I found one there too!’
In the midst of totally losing it, I clutch Jordan’s shoulder out of panic. ‘Wait. Is this something I can laugh about? Should I laugh? I’m sorry …’
‘Rod,’ she grins, ‘sometimes, when what you get saddled up with really sucks, there’s not much you can do other than find a broken lighthouse and laugh about it. This has been my whole life, you know? Figuring out how to shove being sick to the side so I could get out there and play just like the other girls. Memorizing public bathroom beelines. Tough luck. You have to laugh.’
I think about what she had said about her parents, vague mentions she’d dropped earlier, but little else. Dad was absent. Mom was breaking her back for what seemed like no reason. Somewhere in between there was Jordan, grappling with what she’d been given all on her own. I watch her laugh, each one coming right from her heart, her eyes squeezed shut as she falls against my shoulder. I was never a laugher. I put all my frustration into my game, and played until people noticed. But I could see how we weren’t all that different. Everyone else mightsee something beautiful. In fact, they should see something beautiful. You get good at hiding the sad, derelict cracks after a while.
Jordan’s eyes eventually open, meet mine. It doesn’t take a conversation for me to see that sadness lurking behind the amused glimmer.
‘You gotta laugh,’ Jordan says again, but this time, it doesn’t come out as happy. The statement is heavy, finite. The creases beneath her eyes stand out more than they have before, the weight of growing up relying on Mom, yes, but also with Mom relying on her. Sports, farm, sickness, all of it.
‘We got one more destination to hit before we get you home.’ I stand, and extend a hand to her, which she takes. I blink back the strange emotions swirling through my chest, and help her up. ‘Come on.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
To Call My Own
Jordan
‘Is this what I think it is?’ I plant my hands on my hips and look up at the cabin. It’s obviously a helpful swap-out for the very deep lighthouse conversation, but it is a lot smaller than it appeared in the photos, kind of like when a Tinder profile picture has been taken at an opportune angle, only for the real thing to disappoint. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m pretty sure.’ Rod points to the wooden sign just off to our left.DAWSON FAMILY CABIN.Bingo.
As we crunch our way through the grass and dirt, down the overgrown path up to the cabin, I deeply regret my choice of Chaco sandals. Rod smartly swapped his Birkenstocks for a pair of sneakers he had hiding in his car. I feel some kind of mulch sneak its way between my toes. Brilliant.
The earthy after-rain smell that lingers in the air gets stronger
as we pick our way towards the front door. The cabin is surrounded by a deep clearing, lots of greenery all around, including lush trees and shrubs, some blossoming with flowers and fruits. Its exterior is more than a little bit chapped, the wood pockmarked, the three posts out in front of the cabin carved up with names and drawings. The windows are so grimy they look like they’ve been frosted so you can’t see inside, albeit in a very pleasant, cute shade of sickly brown. Although not as badly as the lighthouse stair-steps, these creak in complaint as we ascend them to get onto the porch. The whole thing screams shaggy and unkempt, leading me to believe that – despite the lore – this place has definitely gone overlooked for a hot minute.
‘Where’s the duck?’ I ask Rod while I pick pieces of what feel very much like woodchips from off my feet.
‘You’ll see. Look.’ He taps the plaque posted to the right of the door. It’s as neglected as everything else, but I can make out the words. True to Rod’s answer to my question, this cabin was built by the founders of Whittaker, Massachusetts, a couple called Sidney and Daisy Dawson. The copper duck inside was a wedding gift from Sidney to Daisy, after the two were married right in front of the cabin, right on the path we’d walked to get inside. That dang duck. TheLonely Planetblogs I’d read hadn’t lied.
‘So they got married, and he got her …’
‘A duck,’ Rod finishes, holding back a smile. ‘It’s town lore. Some inside joke that only the Dawsons will ever know, probably. Their kids grew up in this house, so maybe the kids, too. Helen, who owns the ice-cream place, she’s a Dawson, but if you asked her, she’s got no idea. Doesn’t matter, though. People are obsessed with the duck.’
‘I couldn’t tell,’ I quip, and my sarcasm earns me an eye roll as Rod reaches for the doorknob. With a dramatic squeak, the old door swings open, and Rod continues his tour guide spiel. I like this Tour Guide Rodney. I don’t mind the backwards ball cap sitting on his head all effortlessly sexy, or the deep rumble of his voice. He’s also a very emotionally mature tour guide, but that part, I leave to think about later. I’m not here to get into the semantics of what I do and don’t feel. I’m here to rub this goddamn duck.
‘Anyways, I looked it up after you asked me.’ So he did care about my stupid questions. ‘And it told me that the duck is supposed to symbolize community, everlasting love. If you touch it, those things will come your way.’
Rod and I peruse the old, dirty plastic panels hung up around the walls of the empty cabin, each one a different phase of the Dawsons’ lives: a blurry photo here, an artifact from the original cabin there, all captioned in teeny Times New Roman font. The Dawsons settle down on one panel, and on the next, they’ve got three kids and a town to their name – technically, Daisy’s maiden name, Whittaker. And at the very end of it all, sitting on a little pedestal at the back of the cabin, is a duck. The duck.
Maybe the end goal wasn’t to rub the thing, but you can tell that’s what folks have done. Its back is turning gold, in contrast to the rest of its oxidized, greenish-mint body. It’s about the size of an actual duck, with the detailed facial features etched into copper. A mallard duck, if I’m not mistaken.
‘There you have it,’ announces Rod. My eyes cut his way, and he’s standing with his arms crossed, off to one side like he’s going to give me a moment to have a heart-to-heart with the hunk of green copper. ‘Your duck.’
