Hydraulic Level Five (1) (10 page)

Caulfield scurries to obey. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to hurt Aspen.”

The Coach drags a hand over his face. “Now, I know my little girl can be kinda overbearing sometimes.”

“Overbearing?”

“A downer. When you’re a ten-year-old boy, you just want to hang out with other ten-year-old boys. And girls, if you count Maria. And that’s fine. But you and Aspen have something special. She pretty much worships the ground you walk on, you know that?”

“Yes. sir.”

“And I think you like her a lot, too. Sort of like your little sister.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that’s cool. But she’s younger than you are, and sometimes two years is a big difference. Do you hang out with other third graders?”

“No, sir.”

“Just remember what it was like when you were in third grade. How you wanted to do things the older kids did, but weren’t big or strong enough. So keep an eye on her. Look out for her when you can. None of this leaving her stuck in tree houses business. Can I count on you to do that, Caulfield?”

Caulfield solemnly nods. “I promise, sir.”

The Coach holds out his big, calloused hand to the boy and they shake on it. “Far out.”

The two step into the bright foyer from the bluster outside, shaking out their raincoats and hanging them on his aunt’s coat rack. Aspen flies to Caulfield, wet clothes snapping. Her eyes and cheeks are pink, nose raw from sneezes. Her blond hair is snarled and stringy, like clumps of dirty flower roots. She stops short of hugging him.

“I’m sorry.
Lo s-siento
,” Caulfield stutters over his wobbly Spanish. “I was really mean to you.”

Aspen sniffles. “If you don’t like me, tell me. You don’t have to make a stupid sign.”

“I like you. But sometimes we want to be by ourselves, without kids hanging around.”

“But you guys are kids, too.”

“Yeah, but we’re older. We’re supposed to take care of you.” He tugs her ear.

Aspen’s breath trembles from her crying jag. “Next time you get bored playing with me, tell me to go away and I’ll do it. Just don’t make a sign again.”

Caulfield feels his heart crack a bit. He pulls his young friend into a hug and kisses the top of her wet head. “I’ll never get bored of you, Firecracker.”

Caro, I’m used to writing more darkly for the Water Sirens series. This seems too simple. Is the childlike sentimentality coming across as contrived or genuine?
~SC

SC, I don’t even know what to say. The things I learn about you. Structurally, I’d say genuine, but a strong sense of place is missing. I suppose it’s good we’re in Lyons, you can get some inspiration. Speaking of inspiration, I think I’d like to pay a visit to that tree house…and I’m definitely over ten.
~Caro

Caro, the tree house is gone. We weren’t exactly master carpenters. I’ll work on the sense of place. Thanks, Caro. You’re amazing.
~SC

The Lyons High athletic department laundry room was my hideaway.

My father coached the Lyons varsity baseball team, one of the few commitments he’d made and held to with any long-term consistency. Since he spent so much time in the coach’s office during baseball season, I’d tag along and launder the team’s smelly towels. No, this wasn’t a deep metaphor for some secret desire to be dominated by men, sexual repression, anything like that. The simple fact was, the place was cozy. It was secluded and rumbly, and smelled like Downy. I had come here since I was old enough to know not to eat laundry soap. I’d prop my back against the warm dryer to do homework, read a book, or just think.

This morning, I cooled my heels in the laundry room before Danita’s bridal shower. I hadn’t had a moment alone since my horrible hangover the morning after Molly and I drank our weight in merlot.
The Last Other
was open on my lap. Amazing, how four hundred pages of nothing but words could cause such a frenzy in readers and media alike.

I was a fourth of the way in and Neelie’s death loomed heavy. Every page I turned, I cringed, expecting something to fly out of the sky and pummel Fiction-Me. The way Samuel built suspense…I didn’t know a lot about writing, but I could tell the difference between being wrapped up in a story and just passing time. His story was so vivid and bizarre, it almost made me forget I was peeved he killed off my character. But sometimes Samuel was abstract with his ideas, and it rankled my questing mind.

Her eyes were keyholes, swollen, obliterating her peripheral sight. But she could still see. Before, there’d been nothing but flashes of pain and weakness and the Others hovering above her, sharp jabs hitting her body over again. Now the Others were gone and only Nora, Noel, and Nicodemus remained, carrying her over mountain slopes roiling with stripped ancient pines and white snowflakes. They swirled through the keyholes like flecks of cold ash. Neelie thought maybe she’d always seen through swollen eyes, with no peripheral, nor had she missed it. There was nothing but tundra, ripples of ice…and the back of Nicodemus’s body as he pressed forward through the pass, forever trekking ten feet ahead to break the shell of snow, grinding it down…

The door swung open, startling me out of the frozen mountain scene. Through glazed eyes, I saw my dad leaning against the washer, an agave smoothie in each hand. His sandy hair was snarled, cotton T-shirt threadbare under his baseball jacket.

“Breakfast?” He held up a smoothie.

“Sure, thanks. Hey, Dad, I’ve got another one for you.”

He groaned. “Did you see Hector yesterday?”

“Yes, just listen. Hippie Tom’s daughter comes home from a Dead concert…” I snickered through the joke as I followed him out of the laundry room.

My dad didn’t think Hector’s jokes were funny, but he did like Hector Valdez. He had also cared for Sam, though they often went toe-to-toe over my father’s recreational drug use. When Dad kicked the pot to keep his coaching job, things got better at home and they eventually developed a respect for each other beyond Sam’s star status on Dad’s state championship team. His flight to New York hurt my father deeply, but I thought Dad would welcome him back with open arms if the prospect arose.

I plopped down in his desk chair and opened my book again.

“So…what are you doin’?”

“Reading.”

“Yeah, I can see. What are you reading?”

I buried my face in the pages. “
The Last Other
.”

“Wait, isn’t that Samuel’s book? Why’re you reading it?”

“Because he asked me to.” Well, more like dared me to, but close enough.

“I see.”

Dad didn’t move, smoothie still in hand. Finally, I bookmarked my spot and hopped up from his desk chair. “Look, Dad, I’d love to stick around, but Danita’s bridal shower is this afternoon and I have some errands to run.”

“Will Sam be there?” My father never wasted words.

“Ah, I really don’t know. I doubt it.”

“Cool. If he bothers you, let me know.”

I smiled, knowing the worst he’d do was pass along some new age book, and kissed his hairy face. “He won’t bother me, Dad.”

Danita didn’t want a traditional Mexican wedding, though Sofia had angled for one. This included the bridal shower. I suggested having it at my mom’s farm, but she shot that down before I’d even completed my sentence. Angel’s plane hangar was also a no-go, but it inspired me. I found the perfect venue on the edge of Lyons—a little bed & breakfast whose owners were flight enthusiasts. I talked them into exhibiting their radio controlled hobby planes after the shower. Molly had even bought up all of the Matchbox planes and helicopters in Boulder toy stores to give away as party favors.

Sofia, Molly, and I were in the B&B kitchen, putting the final touches on trays of prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, stuffed mushrooms, and toasted brie cheese and pears on baguettes. I may not have been a fashionista, but when it came to menu planning I was in familiar water. Molly lifted the box lid from the sheet cake and halted, knife poised over the corner piece.

“Ah, Kaye?” she said.

“Yes?” I arranged pansies around stacks of pineapple slices.

“So…is there something Danita hasn’t told us?”

Sofia’s head shot up from where she was mixing punch. “Why, what’s wrong?”

Molly gestured to the cake with her knife. I dropped the flowers and peered over her shoulder at the cake, seeing what she saw.

Oh sweet Mother Mary. Dani was going to kill us and bury our bodies in the foothills.

Instead of each slice of cake having a frosting flower in the center, two dozen little baby booties stared up at us like pairs of pink eyes. Sofia laughed softly behind me.

“Oh…my. This is unexpected.”

I groaned. “Of all things! Who confuses
bridal
shower with
baby
shower? I mean, how do these people stay in business?”

“Flo’s the only lady in Lyons who makes cakes,” Molly explained. “She’s eighty-five, give her a break.”

“What do we do?”

“I say leave it. Then when Danita sees the cake, we snap photos like crazy and enjoy the moment of payback.”

Any other time and I would have thought it was funny. But guests would arrive in ten minutes and all we had was a sheet cake that screamed
Surprise, Dani is knocked up!
I wrung my hands, thinking quickly. Got it. Rushing to the refrigerator, I pulled out a package of strawberries, shoved them under cold water, then dumped them on a cutting board.

“Okay, women, here’s the game plan. Sofia, pry those booties off the cake. Throw them away, put them in a freezer bag for several years down the road, I don’t care. Molly, help me slice. We’ll make strawberry hearts for each piece.”

We worked swiftly, patting berries dry and placing them over the spots where the baby booties had been. I was so focused on the task that I didn’t notice my former father-in-law hovering over my shoulder until I was finished. I very nearly took him out with my paring knife. It clattered onto the counter as my hand flew to my chest.

“Alonso!” I squealed in a pitch nearly too high for human ears, and threw my arms around his neck. Alonso was editor-in-chief of an understaffed magazine, and I felt I hadn’t seen him in years. He hugged me back with that signature Cabral embrace.

“
Hola, mijita
.” He smiled at my enthusiasm. I was a twenty-seven-year-old small business owner, but still “
mijita”
to Alonso—one of the hazards of remaining in your hometown.