Protecting Marie (20 page)

Fanny had been on her way downstairs to check on lunch when she had seen Timothy through the window on the green.

“Do you mind if I go out?” she called to her mother.

“Do you want to eat lunch first?” Ellen asked from another room.

“No, I'm not really hungry,” Fanny said, her jacket already on.

“Bye,” Fanny thought she heard her mother say.

Fanny and Dinner shot out the door and glided down the sidewalk at a brisk clip. It smelled like spring outside—damp and fishy and sunny all at once. Fanny sensed the stirrings of things beneath the ground. Already, in the garden, the bright green beginnings of the tulips and crocuses were poking up through the dead leaves and badges of ice. But it was still only February, so Fanny knew that today was just a tease.

“Hi!” Fanny cried, waving. When they had crossed the street and reached the green, Fanny unhooked Dinner from her leash. Dinner bounded throughout the park, enthusiastically sniffing things seen and unseen.

Timothy pulled his cap off and wagged it high above his head.

When they were close enough to hear each other without shouting, Timothy said shyly, “I was hoping you'd see me.”

“You can knock on the door, you know,” said Fanny. “If you want.”

Timothy shrugged and blushed and grinned. “No hockey today,” he said, gesturing toward the rink. “I brought my stick and skates. They're under the bench.”

The weather had been so warm lately that the ice had been melting. Water puddled on what remained of the hard surface, reflecting the sun.

Some neighborhood kids were breaking off chunks of ice from the mounds surrounding the rink and tossing them into the puddles.

“A bomb! A bomb!” one screamed.

“It's the end of the world!” yelled another.

A third shrieked, “Whooo-whooo! This is not a test!”

Fanny and Timothy walked over to the bench. They sat and watched the children, laughing and not saying much. Dinner ran up to the bench periodically to check on Fanny. Then, after a play bow, she'd dart off excitedly, dodging between shrubs, hunting squirrels, splashing in the water—in general, acting
like a puppy.

“She's great,” said Timothy.

“Yeah,” said Fanny.

The silences didn't seem awkward to Fanny. She closed her eyes and raised her head to the sun. She was thinking of so many things at the same time, her mind had to work hard to keep them all straight. She was thinking about her father's painting and her half-finished scarf and the new Marie. She was thinking of Mary Dibble and Timothy, Timothy, Timothy Hill. She wondered when she would get the photograph of Dinner as the Snow Queen back from the frame shop. She wondered what it would be like to have met her own parents when they were her age. If by some trick of time they all could have been twelve together, would they have been friends, the three of them? Imagine that!

Will the rink refreeze? And will I be able to skate a figure eight this year?

Should we walk over to Mary's house?

Should I show Timothy the scarf?

“Hey,” said Timothy, nudging her gently
with his elbow. “Wake up. I want you to see something.” He pulled a square lump of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was a page from a garden catalog. “Look, you can order ladybugs,” he said, leaning into her. “Two thousand for fifteen dollars. I'm going to do it. Ladybugs are good bugs, you know. They devour aphids. They help a garden.”

Fanny giggled. She hadn't known one could order bugs through the mail, much less ever met someone who wanted to do it.

“You think it's weird,” Timothy remarked quietly, wadding the paper and stuffing it back into his pocket.

“No, not at all. It's kind of neat.”

“I might want to do something with science. Or bugs,” Timothy said, scratching his nose, then hiding behind his hand. “If I can't play professional hockey.”

“I'd like to be a linguist,” Fanny told him. She had never mentioned this to anyone. Hearing her own words startled her a bit.

“That would be a great career,” he said solemnly. “Cool.”

He seems genuinely impressed, she thought. Someone like Bruce Rankin would have said, “
Linguine?
Fanny Swann wants to be
linguine
when she grows up!”

She wished to do more than learn languages and study the origins of words. Although she didn't know if it was part of the job, she hoped to create new words, too. And she already had one word to her credit.

The smallest of the neighborhood doomsayers came toddling over, with Dinner close behind. His name was Corey Shinkle. His clothes were filthy and wet, but his face was flushed and buoyant. Placing one dimpled pink hand on Fanny's thigh and the other on Timothy's knee he shouted gleefully, “It really
is
the end of the world!”

She smiled kindly at him, her teeth showing. She knew that it wasn't the end of the world. In fact, the end of the world was the furthest thing from her mind. She was happy for now. And now was all that mattered.

Corey Shinkle ran off, his arms outstretched, belching forth a wretched sound like
a fighter plane. Dinner followed him, then circled back to Fanny and Timothy. She sat squarely in front of Fanny, waiting.

“What do you want to do?” Timothy asked.

“Hmmm,” Fanny breathed. She bent down so that she was nose to nose with Dinner. She looked intently into Dinner's clear, brown eyes. The options were limitless.

It was the first day of second grade and Billy Miller was worried. He was worried that he wouldn't be smart enough for school this year.

There was a reason he was worried. Two weeks earlier on their drive home from visiting Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills of South Dakota, Billy Miller and his family stopped in Blue Earth, Minnesota, to see the statue of the Jolly Green Giant. Billy instantly recognized the Giant from the labels of canned and frozen vegetables. The statue was spectacular—so tall, and the greenest green Billy had ever seen.

Billy was wearing his new baseball cap that said
BLACK HILLS
in glossy silver embroidery. It was a blustery day. The flag on the nearby pole snapped in the wind. Billy raced ahead of his family—up the steps to the lookout platform. As he stood between the Giant's enormous feet, a sudden gust lifted his cap from his head. His cap sailed away. Without thinking, Billy stepped onto the middle rung of the guardrail, leaned over, and reached as far as he could. He fell to the pavement below.

The next thing Billy remembered was waking up in a hospital. His parents, whom he called Mama and Papa, were with him, as was his three-year-old sister, Sally, whom everyone called Sal.

After tests were done, the doctor proclaimed Billy miraculously unharmed, except for a lump on his head. “You fell exactly the right way to protect yourself,” the doctor told him. “You're a lucky young man.”

“And Papa got your hat back!” said Sal.

When they returned home, Billy proudly showed his lump—and his cap—to his best friend, Ned. He called his grandmother on the phone and told her about the incident, too. Everything seemed all right until a few nights later when Billy overheard his parents talking in the kitchen.

“I'm worried about him,” said Mama.

“He's fine,” said Papa. “Everyone said he's fine. And he seems fine. He
is
fine.”

“You're probably right,” said Mama. “But I worry that down the line something will show up. He'll start forgetting things.”

“He already forgets things,” said Papa. “He's a seven-year-old boy.”

“You know what I mean,” said Mama. She paused. “Or he'll be confused at school. Or . . .”

That's all Billy heard. He snuck up to his room and closed the door. And that's when he started to worry.

Billy didn't tell anyone that he was worried. Sometimes, he didn't know how to say what he was thinking. He had words in his head, but they didn't always make it to his mouth. This happened often, even before the fall.

“Happy first day of school,” said Mama.

“Happy first day of school,” said Papa.

Billy had noticed long ago that one of his parents often repeated what the other said.

Without taking the time to sit at the table, Mama rushed about the kitchen, stealing a few bites of Papa's toast and a gulp of his coffee. She hoisted her big canvas bag onto the counter and reorganized its contents.

It was Mama's first day of school, too. She taught English at the high school down the street.

While Billy was eating his pancakes, Papa reread aloud the letter that Ms. Silver, the second grade teacher, had sent during the summer.

In the letter Ms. Silver greeted the students and said she was looking forward to the new school year. She said that she and her husband had a baby boy at home. And two dogs. She said that second grade would be “a safe, happy year of growth” and “a wonderful, joyful, exciting challenge.”

Billy stopped chewing when he heard the word
challenge.
He put down his fork and touched the lump on his head. He didn't want a challenge.

Papa continued. “Ms. Silver says you'll be studying colors and habitats and the world of names.”

“That sounds like fun,” said Mama.
“My
students will be studying
Beowulf
and
Paradise Lost.”

“I'd rather be in second grade,” said Papa, smiling.

Unlike the other fathers Billy knew, Papa stayed home and took care of Sal and the house. Papa was an artist. He was waiting for a breakthrough. That's what he always said. He was currently working on big sculptures made of found objects. Pieces of old machines, tree limbs, and broken furniture filled the garage and spilled out onto the driveway. They were scattered across the yard, too. Billy loved watching Papa work. There was always something lying around that was fun to play with.

“Gotta go,” said Mama. She kissed Papa on his bushy orange beard. She kissed Billy on his lump. “Have a fantastic day,” she said. “And kiss Sal for me when she wakes up.”

Just like that, Mama was gone, the smell of her lemony shampoo hanging in the air for a moment.

Papa cleared his throat and shook Ms. Silver's letter with a flourish. Billy could tell he was trying to be funny In a deep, rumbly voice he said, “This utterly fascinating letter concludes by stating that currently this is, in fact, according to the Chinese, the Year of the Rabbit.” Papa used his regular voice again. “That's pretty great, don't you think? The Year of the Rabbit.”

Billy shrugged. Normally this would have interested him, but he was preoccupied.

“Maybe you'll have carrots for a snack every day,” said Papa.

Silence.

“Papa?” said Billy.

“Hmm?”

“But, Papa, will I be smart enough for second grade?”

“Of course you will,” said Papa. He was looking right at Billy, directly into his eyes.