Junonia (8 page)

                                            
Love to all
,

                                             
Helen

P.S. If I'm not mistaken, you're ten this year. Ten is a big deal.

“I can't believe she knew you were ten,” said Alice's mother.

“I can't believe you can ski down the middle of Lexington Avenue,” said Alice's father.

Alice quickly tore into the three small boxes. Even though the note had described the gifts, Alice couldn't wait to see the items, to touch them, to hold them.

There were ten gelato spoons in the first box. The spoons were just a few inches long. They were transparent colored plastic—two pink, one blue, one green, two purple, one orange, and three yellow. They were smooth and light.

There were ten glass beads in the second box. The beads were multicolored and looked like pieces of hard candy. Alice inspected each one, trying to pick a favorite, but couldn't.

The last box held ten euros. The euros seemed more exotic than American money because each coin was both silver and gold, and was heavy.

“This is so nice of her,” Alice's mother said, fingering the beads.

“
So
nice,” echoed Alice's father.

Alice nodded vigorously. She started to reread the note. “What does ‘cherries on their cheeks' mean?” she asked.

Alice's mother gently patted Alice's face. “Rosy cheeks—pink cheeks—from the cold air.”

“Oh, right,” said Alice. She continued to reread the note. She now wanted to know everything about Venice. She knew some about the canals, and she'd seen photographs of a cathedral in one of her father's thick architecture books, but that was the extent of her knowledge. Alice had never been out of the country, and she'd only been in five states: Wisconsin, Illinois, Michigan, Minnesota, and Florida. “Have you ever been to Venice?” she asked her parents.

“No,” her father answered, shaking his head.

“Could we go someday?”

“Maybe,” said her father.

Her mother sighed. “I've always wanted to see Italy.”

When Alice was done looking at her gifts—absorbing them—she put them back into the small boxes. Then she replaced those boxes in the carton in which they'd been shipped. The boxes were settled snugly amid the crumpled newspaper like eggs in a nest.

“Hey, maybe we could use the gelato spoons at my party tonight,” said Alice. “For ice cream.”

“Sure,” said her mother.

“But everyone has to give them back because I want to keep them.” Forever, thought Alice. Forever and ever.

 

On the sun-drenched afternoon of her tenth birthday, while her mother finished making a chocolate cake and a key lime pie, Alice and her father checked the sand heart before setting off on a junonia walk. Alice hadn't told him it was a junonia walk; she'd kept that to herself. He thought they were simply taking a stroll on the beach.

Alice had the red and blue sea glass, one of the gelato spoons, one bead, one euro, and a dime from Mr. Barden in her pocket for good luck.

If she really listened, Alice could hear the word
junonia
in the sound of the waves. The whispering voice of the ocean coaxed her on, and she wished with all her might that she'd find a junonia, knew that she would if only she concentrated hard enough and walked a little farther, a little bit farther.

With her head bent downward, her eyes swept left right, left right. All at once, she became aware of her father's toenails. They were thick and yellowed like jingle shells. They looked like the toenails of an old man, and she glanced up to make sure her father was still her father.

“Yes?” he said. He raised his eyebrows above his sunglasses.

She smiled at him. “Nothing.”

“Did I wish you a happy birthday?” he asked. Now he wiggled his eyebrows.

Alice wrinkled her nose. “A hundred times.”

“Just checking.”

A sudden rush of warm wind tossed Alice's hair, and a few strands caught in the corner of her mouth. She left them there.

“You look like you're searching for something,” said her father. “Something specific.”

She told him.

“Well,” he said, “I wouldn't get my heart set on finding a junonia. I've never seen one.”

“But people do,” she said. And it's my birthday, she thought. And I'm ten today, which is extra special.

Alice's father flicked his wrist and checked his watch. “We should turn back,” he said.

“Already?”

“I think so.”

Alice didn't object, only because she reasoned that a junonia might have washed up behind them. She often found new things on the beach by retracing her steps.

On the way home, Alice grabbed a thin piece of driftwood. She drew a letter J in the cool, wet, hard, dark sand right after a wave had receded, and she drew another one up on the warm, dry, soft, lighter sand away from the surf. She made two wishes. One of the Js would be washed away in minutes; the other would last longer but would be trampled to nothing soon enough by people walking by. She threw the driftwood into the water and made another wish.

“Do you remember your tenth birthday?” she asked her father, without looking up.

“I don't.”

“
Really?
” That seemed impossible. Alice smiled privately. She'd never forget hers. She found another piece of driftwood—a chunky one, like a melon—and heaved it at a wave.

“Nice toss.” The voice was low and came from behind them. They turned around. It was Mr. Wishmeier. Alice and her father waited for him to catch up to them. He moved briskly and soundlessly with his walking stick.

“What treasures have you found today?” asked Mr. Wishmeier. “Other than your birthday heart.”

Alice extended her open hands for Mr. Wishmeier to see—palms up, palms down, palms up. Empty.

“Apparently,” said Alice's father, “we're on a mission. A junonia mission.”

At least, Alice noted, he hadn't said a
hopeless
junonia mission. “Have you ever found one?” she asked, squinting up at Mr. Wishmeier.

“I haven't. But my son Allen did once, long ago, when he was about your age.”

“See, Dad,” said Alice. “I
really
want to find one.” This sentence, although not spoken loudly, was brimming with emotion, and was directed at her father, at Mr. Wishmeier, at the clouds, at the sunshine, at the sand, at the ocean. For a second, while she'd formed the words, the feeling of wanting took up her whole body.

“Just remember to enjoy the hunt,” Mr. Wishmeier commented warmly. “That's the important thing,” he added, already picking up his pace. When he was a few yards ahead of them, he raised his walking stick as if to say good-bye and good luck.

Alice kept searching.

“Junonia or not—” Alice's father began.

“I know,” Alice cut in.

The ocean continued to chant
junonia
, but to no avail. The little cottages, including Scallop, were soon in view. And so was Alice's mother, waiting, waving.

“More birthday, here we come,” said Alice's father.

 

Mallory was all stirred up. She blew into Alice's bedroom like a trumpet blast. She wanted Alice to look at the birthday card she'd made for her and to open the present she'd brought over.

Alice could tell that Mallory would not settle down until she complied.

“The card's a drawing of Munchkitty,” Mallory explained. “With a party hat.”

“It's really nice,” said Alice.

The present was rolled up in yellow tissue paper and tied with ribbon at both ends so that it looked like a party favor, a cracker, the kind Alice always found in her stocking on Christmas morning. Alice sat on the edge of the bed with the present on her lap.

“Open, open,” said Mallory, rising up on her tiptoes. She came down heavily on her heels, then plopped onto the bed next to Alice. The mattress was so soft they sank into each other, bumping shoulders. Mallory tried to make Munchkitty sit up on the bed beside her, but the doll collapsed on herself. “She's sleeping,” said Mallory, flipping out her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Now, open.”

“Okay,” said Alice. She moved over a little, away from Mallory, and turned slightly to better face her.

The present. It was a homemade necklace—a kitten's paw on a cord. A match to the one Munchkitty was wearing.

“Thank you,” said Alice.

“Put it on,” said Mallory. “And see, I've got one, too.” She snaked her hand under her shirt and pulled out a necklace of her own. “We're triplets!” She thrust her chin into her chest and peered downward while she talked. “My dad says the holes are called boreholes and that something ate it to make the hole.” She lifted her chin and took a deep breath. She watched Alice. “I found the shells after breakfast.”

Alice looped the necklace over her head and gently pulled the shell to straighten it.

Mallory calmed down a bit, until she remembered about the box from Helen Blair. When Alice told her she'd opened it, Mallory begged to see the gifts.

Mallory was most interested in the gelato spoons. “The little spoons would be
perfect
for Munchkitty!” said Mallory. “They could be shovels for when she goes to the beach.” As she spoke her eyes widened and her voice rose and quickened.

They were lying on the bed, the spoons between them. Mallory picked up the spoons and arranged them into a wheel, handles in the center. Before she placed the single blue spoon down, she'd caressed it as if it were a tiny animal.

It was strange to Alice how the gelato spoons were becoming more and more desirable to both of them with each passing second. Alice surrounded the spoons with her arms, protecting them.

“You have a lot of them,” said Mallory. Her eyes were pleading, and they were glittering with determination, too. She was propped up on her elbows, twisting a strand of her hair around her pinkie.

“I have ten,” Alice replied. “Because
I'm
ten. No extras,” she said quietly as she gathered up the spoons. “I'll put them away, but we can use them later for ice cream.”

“You should count them again,” said Mallory. Her gaze was fixed on Alice as Alice crossed the room and hastily shoved the spoons into a dresser drawer. “Maybe you have eleven.”

Alice felt the beginnings of a growl uncurl deep within her. “Hey,” she said, thinking fast, hoping to divert Mallory, “we could make place cards for dinner.”

“How many people will there be?” asked Mallory.

Alice calculated in her head. “Six. My family and you and Kate and your dad.”

“What about the old people?”

“The Wishmeiers and Mr. Barden? They're coming later for cake and pie. And ice cream.”

“They're not coming for hot dogs?”

“No.”

“I am,” Mallory said proudly. “Maybe they don't like hot dogs, anyway.”

“I don't know.” Alice stood by the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, her hands tucked under her armpits. She let her hair fall over her face like a curtain. “Are you going to help me?” she asked, raking her hair behind her ears.

Mallory bobbed on the bed as if she were riding waves. It was clear to Alice that she was considering the idea. With her hair bouncing, she sprang from the bed, causing it to shift and the legs of its metal frame to scrape against the floor. “But we have to do a place card for Munchkitty, too,” she said in a funny cadence, almost like a song or a nursery rhyme.

“Of course,” said Alice.

Mallory forgot about the spoons, and she and Alice busied themselves making place cards—cutting paper, lettering names, and drawing a picture of a shell on each one.

Before Alice knew it, the place cards were in their proper spots, the hot dogs were ready, and she was eating her birthday dinner. The hot dogs were perfect. The potato chips were perfect. Even the carrot sticks were perfect; they were sweeter than ever, and crunchy, and the most pure orange color imaginable. Can food somehow know it's your birthday and change to become more delicious? Underneath it all lay the faded red-and-white–checked tablecloth that Alice's mother had found in the back of the cupboard. It was perfect, too.