Swing Sideways Read online

  Mom blushed and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, frowning at the red stain—one more thing for her to wash and iron. I already knew from the ironing lessons she’d made me endure that linen is next to impossible.

  “Mom, have you ever thought of using paper napkins?” Her body stiffened. “I mean, so you don’t have to spend all summer ironing.”

  She settled back against the love seat and studied Grandmother Stockton’s mirror across the room like she always did when she had a manners-related decision to make. After a moment she said, “No, no, I never did consider that.”

  “I don’t mind paper napkins, Vic.”

  “Well, I don’t mind ironing,” she said, sprinkling Parmesan over her pizza with a tiny silver salt spoon. “And neither did your mother.”

  Dad reached over and patted the top of her hand. “You don’t have to do everything the way she did. We love you just the way you are.”

  Mom stopped sprinkling. “Sometimes you say things that make it sound like I come up short in your mind. I can’t help it if my upbringing didn’t come with the perks yours did.”

  “You don’t need perks, babe. You’re perfect. And my mother didn’t have the smarts you do, so you’re one up on her.”

  The corners of Mom’s mouth curved up. She might even have been blushing. Dad and I relaxed, and we all went back to our pizza.

  After we did the dishes and moved the furniture back the way it was supposed to be, the three of us watched Forrest Gump. It was Mom and Dad’s favorite movie, the good old standby. Dad and I called, “Ruuuun, Forrest, ruuuun,” and giggled when Forrest said, “Jenneaaa.” Mom grabbed the box of tissues when Forrest watched cartoons with his little boy. And when it was over, I felt so warm and fuzzy I hugged them both before going upstairs to write a new chapter about Scout and Liberty. It was a great feeling.

  FIFTEEN

  The next morning my phone rang twice, this time a little after eight. California and I had already made plans to meet by the river after noon, so this meant Mr. McMurtry must be going somewhere long enough for us to do a search in the house first. I tiptoed quietly past Mom and Dad’s room, and left a note on the counter.

  In search of raspberries. Back later. A.

  Another lie. Someday, I promised myself, I’d make up for the lies and bring home a huge bucket of raspberries, and I’d stand in the kitchen with Mom all day and make jam until we were swimming in it.

  California met me on the road, bouncing in the air like Tigger when she saw me coming.

  “Hurry. I already fed Field, so we can search the other places. I have a good feeling about today. We’re going to find something new, I just know it!”

  We ran past the orchard, climbed the fence into the paddock, and dodged into the barn at the same time a car passed on the road and honked. Mom and Dad hadn’t had time to get up and drive a mile, so I pushed the nagging worry out of my head and followed California. She gave me a crude, hand-drawn map.

  “Before we go in the house, let’s cover this whole barn, top to bottom. You take this side—check the stalls, feel around for loose floorboards, check the feed room, behind those barrels of oats, and search the space underneath the stairs. Check for footprints in the dirt, poke around in every corner. I’m searching the carriage room.”

  We separated, and I startled at a shadow along the edge of the floor. “Wait!”

  California turned back.

  “What about Matilda? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, but if you come across her, tell her you’re sorry for interrupting her nap and move on. She’s a black snake. Not poisonous. Not aggressive. Not interested in anything but finding mice and staying out of the heat.”

  My feet were lodged into the floor.

  “Annie, are you really going to let a stupid old black snake hold us up?”

  My mind wound itself up and spun so fast I could barely keep up. Scout. What would she do? My fictitious Scout, who was a little wild and a lot brave. She wouldn’t let anything hold her back, just like California wasn’t going to let anything keep her from bringing her mother home.

  “I’m okay,” I said. This was my chance to prove I could be like Scout, not just in the Story Notebook but in real life. I picked a place on the map to start and moved on.

  Half an hour later I’d scoured every inch of space she’d assigned me. Only thing I found were dirty mousetraps, a couple of pieces of mildewed leather, and more cobwebs than I ever imagined could be in the entire state of New York. She hadn’t found anything, either.

  “Should we try the attic and his bedroom?” I asked.

  “We probably should have started there. Now I’m scared he’ll come back, and we’ll be stuck in the attic until a search-and-rescue team comes looking.”

  “How many times did you go through that trunk upstairs?”

  “Only twice, why?”

  “If you were in a hurry, you could have missed something. Maybe we should check again.”

  She looked over to the driveway. “Like now?”

  “Yeah, why not? Your grandfather’s still gone, but if he comes back, it’ll be easier to get out from up there before he catches us.”

  We ran up the stairs to the secret room. She grabbed the key out of the drawer, and the trunk lid popped open, revealing the box of ribbons and stacks of photos.

  “Get the ribbons first,” I said. “Maybe there’s something written on the back of one you didn’t notice before.”

  California grabbed the box, but when she lifted it up, the top popped off. A long, tricolor ribbon fell out. The end of the blue streamer was wedged between two pieces of wood. She tugged at it gently.

  “It’s caught on something. I’m scared I’m going to rip it,” she said, squeezing her fingers into a narrow gap. The shelf shifted. “Hey, there’s a whole other compartment underneath here.”

  Snatching the photographs from the other side of the trunk, she tossed them onto the floor. The wooden partition in the middle of the shelf had a hole in it, like a handle. With a few hefty tugs, she pulled it out. Underneath, a hidden cavity was filled with tennis trophies, fat manila envelopes, plastic bags full of loose photographs, all kinds of things that qualified as treasure box worthy. On the very bottom lay a brown leather satchel with the initials MKM embossed on the front. She held this up by a strap and touched the letters.

  “Margaret Kathryn McMurtry. Piper has an old school shirt in her closet with these same letters embroidered on it. This was her satchel. You were right, Annie—he did save everything!”

  A moth landed on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and made it flicker. Out in the carriage house, a family of barn swallows argued in high-pitched chirps. California and I stood side by side, silent. She used her bare toe to shuffle some of the papers around on the floor.

  “Now what do we do?” I finally asked.

  “I—I guess we start going through it. Come on, let’s take it to the river. Maybe we’ll find something else totally new that could make her come home, like you said.”

  I carefully filled the satchel with papers and plastic bags, but California stopped me. “He might come back up here while we’re gone and check the trunk. We don’t want him to see things are missing.”

  “Right, of course.”

  After putting half the items back, California plumped the rest up so it wasn’t as noticeable at a glance that some were missing. On our way out of the barn, the old Buick careened into the driveway. I tossed the satchel through the carriage house door behind me so Mr. McMurtry wouldn’t see it.

  “Catherine, we’re late. Come get in the car.”

  “Late?”

  “Your mother, we promised we would Skype today. We’ve got a room reserved at the library for you. Come, now.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Past time. She’s probably in a panic.”

  “Grandfather, Piper doesn’t pani—”

  Mr. McMurtry threw his hands up and motioned for her to get in the car. “M
y apologies, Annabel. We have to hurry.”

  California turned to me and flung her hand in the direction of my house. “The satchel,” she whispered urgently. “Take it.”

  Then they were gone, gravel spewing from under the tires as Mr. McMurtry did a U-turn in the driveway and sped off. There was nothing left but silence, the satchel, and me, standing alone in the chaos of someone else’s life.

  SIXTEEN

  It was lunchtime when I walked slowly up our steep driveway. So much had happened over the morning, the only thing on my mind was getting food and a nap. If I waltzed into the house with the satchel slung over my shoulder, there would be an interrogation, so I hid it under the deck with a plan to sneak it to my room when Mom and Dad left for the beach. That was my intention, anyway. Mom and Dad had other ideas.

  “Hey, Pumpkin, we were worried you wouldn’t make it in time.”

  I stopped short. Mom was wearing a skirt. Dad had on slacks and a sport coat. A memory nibbled at my mind.

  “In time for what?”

  “We’ve got matinee tickets for Twelfth Night in Glens Falls. Did you forget?”

  “Twelfth Night?” My mind had turned to mush.

  Dad pulled the corner of his coat up over half his face like a mask and flailed his arm in the air. “Yes. Love: the ultimate act of deception, mixed with a bit of British humor.”

  “Deception?”

  “Annie, Shakespeare, Twelfth Night. It’s one of your favorites,” Mom said.

  My shoulders sank so far I thought my T-shirt might slip off. “Shakespeare, oh, right. Do you already have a ticket for me? I really want to take a nap.”

  Dad’s face went blank, and Mom’s sagged. My own deception was about to get me into real trouble. I brightened up quickly.

  “Oh, Twelfth Night! Yeah, okay, yeah, sorry, I thought you meant— Never mind. What should I wear? I’ll hurry.”

  My punishment was Mom following me upstairs, alert and excited that I’d asked her advice on what to wear. She pursed her lips when I put my foot down at the white eyelet sundress. A good compromise, in my opinion, was my short jean skirt and sandals. Not the bumblebee ones. Regular, teenager sandals.

  I barely remember the play, or the “après-theater” supper as Mom called it, except for when my head bobbed dangerously close to my plate of calamari, and Dad stuck his finger in my ear to keep me awake. By the time we got home, I was comatose in the backseat.

  “Pumpkin, you’re too old for me to carry you up to bed. You’ve got to walk yourself.”

  Stumbling up the stairs, I fell asleep on top of my covers, still wearing my skirt and sandals.

  At least once every summer a thunderstorm knocks out our power. It happened a few hours after we all went to bed. Raindrops pelted against the window screen and broke into a mist, soaking me and my pillow. I woke with a start, gasping for air and feeling like something was very wrong. There should have been fresh, dry towels on my bathroom shelf, but they weren’t there. They were down by the river, tucked underneath Field’s leg. He must be soaked. I changed into dry pajamas, fumbled back to bed, and reached over to shut the window. Water ran in a steady stream down the gutters outside, soaking the ground. The entire earth was going to turn to mud.

  The entire earth.

  Under the deck.

  The satchel!

  I leaped across my room and flew down the stairs two at a time, my footsteps muffled by rain pounding the roof. Ohnoohnoohnoohno—please let it be okay.

  The couch was gone to be recovered, and Mom had scattered different chairs around the room until it came back. I knocked into one and stubbed my toe. The second one I hit full force. We both crashed to the floor. I waited, listening. When I was sure no one had heard, I got up, raced outside, slogged through the mud under the deck, and pulled the satchel out. It was too late. A slick layer of brown goop coated the whole thing. Dirty water seeped all over the front of me. I’d ruined the papers before I’d even seen them. Stepping carefully across the deck, I went back inside and closed the sliding door behind me. The sound of water falling from my clothes splashed on the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip.

  A yellow light bobbed in the hallway, turned the corner, and blinded me.

  “Pumpkin? What are you doing down here? You’re soaked. Why were you outside, and what’s that?”

  I gripped the satchel tighter. “Dad . . .”

  “What’s going on?” His voice had an unfamiliar edge.

  “Dad—I, . . . can you . . . I need—”

  A new wave of water spread across my belly. Hot tears trickled down my cheeks. “It’s California’s stuff. I left it outside, and it’s soaked. It’s all her mother’s personal papers and photos. I had to go get it. What do I do?”

  He watched me for a second and wiped a hand across his face.

  “Dad?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. This is getting out of hand.”

  “What? Dad, no—can you at least help me get back to my room? I can’t see anything.”

  The beam moved away, and he reached for me. “Come on.”

  I tiptoed toward him, my arms crossed over the satchel, over my heart. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make such a mess.”

  He shone the light in front so I could see where I was going. We turned the corner on the landing, and Mom’s silhouette loomed large and dark at the top of the stairs.

  “Richard?”

  Dad flipped the flashlight away from me and shone it at her. She raised a hand to shield her eyes.

  “Richard, you took the flashlight. I can’t see. Is everything okay?”

  One beat. Two beats. Dad didn’t say anything.

  “Annie?”

  “It’s me. And Dad.”

  “What are you doing down there? It’s pitch-black. Do you have your flashlight?”

  “No.”

  “What were you doing? Richard, what’s going on?”

  Dad nudged me from behind like he was saying, “This is your moment, Pumpkin. Go for it!” Why was he picking this exact moment to stop interfering?

  “It was me. I got confused. Everything’s so dark,” I said.

  “Why were you downstairs?”

  She stepped onto the first stair. I hugged the satchel closer. “I, um, I was trying to find the fuse box. The lights are out.”

  “The lights won’t come back on from flipping the fuse in a storm. Everyone’s electricity is out.” She blocked the light with her hand. “Do you even know where the fuse box is?”

  “No.”

  “Richard, you should show her tomorrow.”

  Dad shifted behind me. “Sure, we can do that. Here, Pumpkin, let me through so I can help Mom back to bed.”

  He handed me the flashlight, pushed past, and led Mom away, leaving me alone on the stairs.

  At the first hint of light I headed for the laundry room with my wet clothes rolled up inside a T-shirt. Dad was on his hands and knees by the door, rubbing a towel on the hardwood floor. Rain still hummed along the roof.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  He kept mopping and said, “Shhhh. Mom’s still sleeping.”

  I squeezed the bundle of muddy clothes and took a step toward the laundry room.

  “Wait one second,” he whispered. He motioned for me to sit on the sofa. “We need to talk.”

  “You already know what happened.”

  “You lied to Mom, Annie. That’s not a good way to handle your problems. I don’t think you even blinked an eye.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. Not good. Are there other things you’ve been lying about?”

  “Nothing, I promise. I didn’t know what to say.”

  “However beautiful the strategy, you should occasionally look at the results.”

  “Huh?”

  “Winston Churchill. It means, pay attention to how you handle your affairs, because going down the wrong path can bring unpleasant results.”

  “Oh.”

  “One lie leads to another, and everything has to
be covered up. Pretty soon your whole life is layered in deceit, and you can’t remember the truth. Not a pretty place to live.”

  “It was only one lie.”

  “You’re not helping by trying to justify it. I know last night was tricky. But you told me the truth, and I didn’t get all worked up, did I?”

  “You don’t really think Mom would have appreciated my shenanigans if I’d told her the truth, do you?”

  “No, probably not, but only because we’ve not been honest with her. If she knew about California, and knew why you were all covered in mud, she would have been okay. But she doesn’t know, because we haven’t told her.”

  “Dad, you can’t. You promised—”

  “I know. I’m not going to throw you under the bus. I did the same as lying by not telling her the truth and shining that flashlight in her face so she couldn’t see what a mess you were. Now you’ve got me right smack in the middle of it, which is exactly what you said you didn’t want.”

  “I’m sorry.” I really was, but not enough to tell Mom about California. Not yet. “Dad, why were you at Mr. McMurtry’s the other day?”

  “You’re my daughter. It’s my responsibility to be aware.”

  “Aware of what? He isn’t bad. He’s not like what everyone says.”

  “I know he’s not bad. I stopped in to say hello and be sure he was okay with you being there.”

  “He loves California.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m sure he does, Pumpkin. No doubt in my mind. Now go get those clothes washed, and take these towels before Mom gets up and we have some explaining to do.”

  After breakfast I barricaded myself in my room and spread everything from the satchel on the bathroom floor. Most of the papers I’d brought were safely sealed inside a plastic bag, but the manilla envelopes and their contents were soaked. I carefully peeled papers and cards apart and lay them in front of the old heater to dry. Two of the cards had With Deepest Sympathy embossed on the front, but whatever messages had been written inside would never be read again. The ink had smeared like blot tests.

  Inside the bag was a handful of feed-store receipts signed in curly script by Margaret McMurtry; five report cards from a private school in town; a homemade Father’s Day card with a brown pony crayoned on the front; a long, greenish frond from a tree pressed onto paper and covered with clear sandwich wrap; and a police report with Borough of Elm Lake, New York, stamped across the top. August 14, 1986. The report said a juvenile, age sixteen, had been brought in for climbing the water tower. The charge was misdemeanor trespassing. Margaret McMurtry had been claimed by her father, Mr. Jody McMurtry, and the charges were dropped.