Kepler’s Dream (5 page)

“Sweetie, it's time to turn that off now.” A Sunny Skies flight attendant with a badge that said KRISTY suddenly hovered over me. Her voice was kind, though—she didn't sound saccharine-fake, like they sometimes do. “Is this your first time flying alone?”

I nodded. I didn't want to be a baby about it.
It's just that my mom has cancer!
I felt like saying, but it seemed inappropriate.

“
Well, it should be a smooth flight. And if you need anything at all, you just let me know. Who's meeting you at the other end?”

Some guy I've never met before in my life, who supposedly knows my dad.
Miguel Aguilar was, according to my dad, a good guy who worked for my grandmother and had a daughter “around my age.” Given how spacey Dad was on specifics, though, I figured the kid could be anywhere from five to fifteen.

“I'm going to visit my grandmother,” I told Kristy, to keep it simple.

“Oh, how nice!” Her face brightened. “I'm sure she'll be glad to see you.”

Actually I think she was pretty much forced into the arrangement. We both were.

“Listen, I've got to do the safety announcement now,” Kristy whispered, putting a hand on my shoulder. “But later, I'll check in to see how you're doing.”

So she went through the famous mime about the sudden loss of cabin pressure and oxygen in the ceiling, the life vest that would save you and the small tube to blow in if you started to deflate. I wanted to steal one to take with me to Violet Von Stern's.

The sunny skies themselves were fine, though, once we were flying around in them. I put my headset on so my iPod could wash any thoughts out of my brain, drank a cola, normally against the law in our house, and had a few handfuls of salty peanuts. Kristy kept her word and checked in on me a few times.
I always gave her a peanutty smile, like it was no big deal, what was I, a fifth-grader still? No, I was not, soon I'd be in middle school and flying by myself was a breeze.

When I came out, there was a tall man in a blue shirt and cream-colored cowboy hat standing near the gate barrier, with a tag on that said MEETING ELLA MACKENZIE. He had kind eyes and walnut skin, and when he introduced himself as Miguel Aguilar, I knew right away that he was a good guy. My dad had been right about that, at least.

“I know you have a travel buddy for us to find, too,” Miguel said as we walked through the airport, which in New Mexico they call a Sunport. So we went to the baggage claim area, where eventually Lou was led out on a leash by some handler and we had a movie-like reunion, with him jumping up and licking me all over.

The whole day kept unspooling like a movie. Outside, the air was hot and bright like the desert, and there was a pink-colored range of mountains in the distance. When Miguel saw me looking at them, he smiled and said, “Say hello to the Sandias,” as if he were a host and those mountains were part of his family. By then I was climbing up into a huge red pickup truck with Lou and feeling like this was the only way to travel. I half hoped that we would never have to get to my grandmother's house at all.

“You look like Mrs. Von Stern,” Miguel said, glancing sideways at me as we started jouncing away in the truck. “Do people say that to you a lot?”

“Not so much.” My mom used to tell me every now and then
that I looked like my dad—but in a tone that made it clear that it would have been better if I didn't.

So then Miguel asked how Dad was doing, and I gave my standard Dad speech about his fishing trips. Miguel asked about my mom, too, and I gave my standard Mom speech about cancer. And just when I was pretty much all speeched out, we rattled off the highway at an unpromising exit, passing some gray buildings behind high barbed-wire fences with signs that said WARNING: ELECTRIFIED FENCE. KEEP OUT. I saw a sign on the fence that said Juvenile Correctional Facility.

“So,” Miguel asked me, like these surroundings were perfectly normal. “How long's it been since you've seen your grandmother?”

“Never,” I answered. “I've never met my grandmother before.”

“Really?” He frowned, and shook his head slightly.

I wondered if maybe Miguel didn't know quite what a weird family we were, all far apart and not talking to each other, but before I could think more about that, the truck suddenly took a sharp turn off a nothing-in-particular stretch of road into a hidden dusty drive. You'd never know there was a driveway at all—there were no other houses on the street we'd left, just weird industrial buildings and that big ugly fenced area.

The truck shuddered to a stop on the gravel, under a high canopy of trees. Around us were tangles of bushes and a scurry of creatures running here and there, followed by a huge
thump
overhead. I jumped. Lou barked. Suddenly it seemed like we were on safari and some lion or an antelope had just landed on top of the truck.

“
Don't worry, that's just a peacock,” Miguel said with a laugh. I saw a blur of brilliant color by my window. “There are a lot of them around. You'll get used to 'em. They don't hurt anyone, they just make a lot of noise.”

I looked through the window and saw that we were surrounded by birds. Dozens and dozens of them, with their beautiful blue necks and topknots and green, fanning tails—and the less fancy brown ones, who were the girls, of course. Lou and I stared. I had never seen so many peacocks in my life.

“How many are there?” I asked.

Miguel shrugged. “Nobody really knows. Eighty? A hundred? It's not like they'll line up so anyone can count 'em.”

Gradually I got that animal feeling that there were eyes watching us, too. At a short distance from the truck, waiting in the turquoise-painted doorway of a low, dirt-colored building, stood a tall, white-haired figure in an emerald-green dress. She was holding something in her arms, I couldn't see what.

I felt glued to my seat. At that moment I never wanted to leave this truck, ever.

Miguel took off his sunglasses so I could see his eyes. “Come on, Ella,” he said gently. “Come say hi to your grandmother. She's excited to have you here for a visit.” He looked back toward the lady and gave her a reassuring wave. “But,” he added in a low voice, “you might not be able to tell that right at first.”

I swallowed and hopped out, and got ready to meet Mrs. Violet Von Stern.

THREE

MY G
ran
D
m
OTH
er
STOOD V
er
Y ST
ra
IGHT. SH
e
W
as
T
a
LL
er
than I had imagined, with jewels around her ears and neck so bright, she glittered. Her eyes were as blue as the necks of the peacocks, her mouth a lipsticked red. She had the air of a queen. She was smiling, sort of, as she watched me approach.

She looked exactly like my dad—if Dad were an old lady with white hair and an emerald-colored dress. It was eerie. She was more Dad than dragon.

“Hello, Ella,” she said from the doorway.

She didn't seem to want to move, and I wasn't sure what the procedure was here. Was I supposed to go hug her? Shake her hand? Curtsy?

“Well! You're dressed for ranch work, I see,” she said.

My heart started to pound. Over blue jeans I had on my Bernie's Burgers and Dogs T-shirt. Mom had brought it back from Chicago when she was there for an optometry conference, and I had worn it for good luck. Suddenly it seemed clear that I
should have been in an outfit suitable for a concert, or promotion. At the very least, a nice shirt.

“My other clothes are all packed,” I stammered. “Sorry.”
No one told me there was a dress code! Don't tell me I'm going to have to wear skirts all summer.
“I'm glad to see you—uh—Grandmother.”

I felt like I was speaking a part in some out-of-date play. Who in the world calls their grandmother “Grandmother”? But “Grandma” didn't seem to fit. Dad had suggested “Grandmother” to me on the phone, and judging from her nod, he got that right.

“You like to wear your hair cropped like that, do you?” she added, with a skeptical look at the hatchet job on top of my head. “Is that the fashion in Santa Rosa?”

I shrug-nodded. In the cancer wards, it was. But I wasn't about to go into an explanation of all that now.

As I got closer, the object in my grandmother's arms started yapping. It was a high, grating sound, and I almost jumped out of my flip-flops. I had no idea the furry thing in her arms was
alive
.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous, Hildy,” she said, scratching what I could now see was the head of a tiny animal. “There's no need to be jealous. This is Brunhilda. Named for the German warrior. Where's yours?”

“My what?” I didn't have a German warrior. Was I supposed to pack one of those, too? Why hadn't someone sent me a list?

“Your
dog
.” My grandmother's voice dripped with impatience.

“
Oh. He's in the truck,” I said. “I think the peacocks—you know—scared him.”

“The birds? Piffle! They won't hurt anyone. Why don't you let him out? Introduce him.”

This did seem like a good idea—like the knight going to get his special, magical sword that protects him against the Forces of Darkness. Lou was the only one on my side at this point. Miguel, after carrying my bags into the house, had disappeared.

So I got Lou down and told him he was a good boy, and of course the first thing he did was run around and pee against a flowerpot near the house, which got Hildy yapping again. (I was going to stick with calling her Hildy. I couldn't call a dog that size
Brunhilda
.) I thought that we might both be arrested for defacing the property, but my grandmother didn't seem to mind.

“What's his name?” She looked down from her great height, her face a bit softer. “Some kind of hound, is he?”

“Lou,” I answered. “He was a rescue dog, so we're not sure, but he seems to have some Lab, maybe mixed with bloodhound.”

Hildy was still yapping so my grandmother said, “Hush, Brunhilda!” sternly. “This is Lou, and he will be your guest for the next month or two, so you're going to have to learn to get along.” She let Hildy out of her arms so the two dogs could do their dog thing together, sniffing and circling and checking each other out.

“Lou will get used to the peacocks,” she assured me. “Everyone does, after a while.” There were maybe twenty birds wandering around on the ground near us, and four or five pacing along
the roof above her head, looking nervous, like people waiting for a dentist appointment. A few others called out from the tops of the trees—a high, sad sound, like grief.

“Come in, Ella,” my grandmother said at last. “Let me show you where you'll be staying.” She opened the screen door, and in I went to the House of Mud.

We came in to a dim, cool entryway. In the clutter I saw a tall umbrella stand holding a bouquet of peacock feathers; a metal tin the size of a barrel filled with cashew nuts; heaps of magazines on the floor; a broad table crowded with stone creatures (polar bears, penguins, seals); and two white wicker chairs that faced each other across a kind of gangway. Straight ahead was a wide screen that gave out onto a courtyard with flower bushes, more birds and one pretty, silver-barked tree. Around the corner was a packed bookcase, with every kind of magazine and catalog scattered across its top.

“I hope you don't mind a few papers and books here and there,” my grandmother said—which was like Niagara Falls asking if you minded getting sprayed by a drop or two of water. “I like to read.”

I nodded. “Me too.”

“Good.” A positive word from Mrs. Von Stern, at last! “This way,” she called over her shoulder like an expedition leader. She opened the door into a dark, cavelike chamber. “We go through the Haitian Room first.”

It was hard for my eyes to adjust in the Haitian Room, as the only light came from a tiny half-curtained window, but
eventually I could see acid-yellow walls almost entirely covered by colorful paintings: of beaches and marketplaces, cars and mopeds, wagons piled high with fruit. Hanging separately, in the corner, was a pencil drawing of a cute, round-eyed little boy.

“I've collected these paintings from various travels over the years,” my grandmother explained in a bored tone. “And that”—she waved at the penciled boy—“is Walter, of course.”

I stared. I would never have recognized that kid as my dad. I had hardly ever thought about him being a kid; it was hard enough to get a handle on him as a grown-up. No one ever got the idea to show me pictures of young “Walter.” I had seen photos of Mom, in albums at the house of my other grandma, in Los Angeles—the one who really
was
a grandma, when she was alive, the kind who sent Christmas presents and baked brownies. My favorite picture from one of those albums was of small, blond Amy at a table with kids and balloons—black and white balloons, it was an old photo—and a huge birthday cake with seven lit candles. She was leaning in, her lips getting ready to blow.