Nest (31 page)

“Can I ask you something?” Joey’s never asked me if he can ask me a question before, so I figure it must be important.

I shrug. I don’t want to think anymore about Mom’s drowning day. I don’t want Joey to ask me if she was wearing her bathing suit or if she hung her jacket on a pine tree before she walked into the water. I don’t want him to ask me if her shoes were on or off. I look at Joey, and he looks back at me.

“Never mind,” he says. He puts his hand on top of my hand. He starts whistling the theme song from
I Dream of Jeannie
.

Sandy Lynn clunks our food down on the table. Some of my hot cocoa sloshes onto the saucer, but I’ll slurp it up as soon as she walks away.

“You two should wash up before you eat,” Sandy Lynn says. Obviously, she doesn’t know Joey. He definitely doesn’t need to be reminded to use good hygiene.

“Make like a banana and split,” he says, jumping up and running to the men’s room. I wait awhile before I head to the ladies’ room because I know Joey will take forever. When I get back to the table, he’s beaten me. He’s already sitting there, his hair wet and combed to the side, his cheeks scrubbed pink. He hasn’t started eating, even though I know he’s really hungry and loves spaghetti and meatballs. He’s been waiting for me.

“Someday I’m going to kiss you,” I say, before I even realize it.

“Someday I’m going to let you,” Joey says.

I eat my muffins and drink my hot chocolate while Joey eats his spaghetti and meatballs, but I’m so rocks-on-my-head tired, I have to use my hand to prop my head up.

“Go to sleep,” Joey says.

“Maybe I’ll just rest a little,” I say, putting my head down on the paper place mat.

It’s cool against my cheek. There are so many sounds: Joey slurping his spaghetti, the
tink-tink
of forks, a door closing, footsteps coming close, then fading away like fog pushed by wind across the salt marsh, puffs of white drifting by, then thinning out into nothing.

“Chirp!” I’m being lifted up, strong arms wrapped tight around me.
Daddy!
I circle his waist with my legs and hold on. I can feel him sobbing, his chest pushing against mine. When he finally puts me down, everyone in the Pewter Pot is staring at us.

“Okay, show’s over,” Sandy Lynn grumbles. She’s like a giant beech tree, planted in front of us, blocking the view. “You just take your time and say your hellos,” she says gently. “No need to rush.”

“Thank you,” Daddy says, not looking at her. He’s running his hands over my shoulders, down my arms, across my face, as if he’s searching for injuries. “I should have called the police to tell them you were in Boston, after you called me. Anything could have happened to you in this crazy city.”

I reach up and touch his wet face.

“Oh, sweetie,” he says.

“Oh, Dad.”

“Last night I talked to Sergeant Pirelli. We figured you and Joey were probably camped out somewhere
close by; you know the woods and salt marsh like the back of your hand. He said if you weren’t home by this afternoon, they were going to start searching. I can’t believe you were so far from home!”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” I feel bad I made him worry.

“My Chirp,” he says, touching my cheek.

“Daddy.”

“God, if I’d lost you, too …” Dad’s shaking his head.

“She’s not
lost
,” I say, “she’s
gone
.”

“That’s right, Chirpie. You’re right. She’s gone.” Daddy’s voice sounds like he’s got rocks in his throat, just like me. He’s holding both of my hands too hard in his, but I don’t mind. I think he’s trying to feel the blood flowing in my veins.

“Daddy,” I say, leaning in and putting my head on his chest. He smells like dry grass. He smells just like him. I want to fall back asleep for a long, long time, right where I am, Daddy’s breath in my hair.

“We’ve got to get you home,” he says. “We’ve got to get you home and tuck you into bed. I’m so sorry, Chirpie. This is all too much.”

“I took good care of her, Dr. Orenstein,” Joey says quietly. I look at him. He’s playing with the Sweet’N Low, stacking the pink packets up on his place mat.

Dad startles, like he’s seeing Joey for the first time.

“Of course you did, Joey,” Dad says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re a good boy,” Dad says. He reaches out and pats Joey’s head. “You’re welcome in our home anytime, Joey. You just come right on over.”

“Thank you.”

Dad puts ten dollars down on the table, which I think is extra money to reward Sandy Lynn for not being some weirdo who’s mean to kids. He lifts me up again like I’m a little girl. I want to tell him to put me down, that I’m way too old to be carried now that I’m a runaway who made it in one piece all the way to Boston, but it just feels too good, my arms around his shoulders, my legs dangling down. Dad and I lead the way, and Joey follows us through Pewter Pot and out the door.

“Wow, it’s still not dark,” Joey says. The sky is a purplish gray.

“If feels like it should at least be tomorrow by now,” I say.

“Or the day after,” Joey says.

“You kids must be exhausted,” Dad says. “Let’s give your parents a quick call, Joey, and then we’ll get going.”

“My parents?” Joey’s voice is trembly.

“Just to let them know that you’re fine and we’re heading home now.”

“But you’ll talk to them, not me, right?” Joey asks. “I mean, I’ll be home really soon, and I can talk to them then.”

Dad’s quiet, and I know he’s trying to figure out what to do.

“Dr. Orenstein?”

“Right, son,” he says gently. “I’ll make the call.”

Dad puts me down next to our car. We’ve been gone for a little more than one day, but the car seems unfamiliar.

“In you go,” Dad says, unlocking the door. We hop in. “I’m just walking to the pay phone,” he says, pointing to the end of the block. “Right there. You see it?”

We look over the front seat and nod.

“I’ll be right back. Lock the door,” he says. He takes two steps, then looks over his shoulder to make sure we haven’t disappeared.

“Wave to him,” I say to Joey.

We wave. Dad waves back.

“Your car smells like saltines,” Joey says.

“Saltines don’t have a smell.”

“Yes, they do.”

“No, they don’t.”

“They smell like salt.”

“Salt doesn’t have a smell.”

“Yes, it does.”

“What does salt smell like?”

“Like saltines.”

I look at Joey, sitting next to me in our car in downtown Boston in the purplish light.

“I’m going to miss you,” I say.

“I live across the road,” Joey says.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

Dad’s walking toward us. Now he’s jogging.

“Okeydoke,” he says when he gets into the car. I’m waiting for him to tell Joey that his parents send their love or at least say hi, but he doesn’t.

“Excuse me, Dr. Orenstein,” Joey says, after Dad pulls out of the parking space and starts driving, “but what did my parents say?”

“They’re glad you’re safe. They’ll see you when you get home.”

“Um, so you talked with them yesterday when you realized Chirp was gone?”

“Yes. When it got dark and Chirp still wasn’t home, I went to see if maybe you knew where she was. Your parents said that you weren’t home, either, so we figured that the two of you were together. We thought that you were probably sleeping outside like Chirp and Rachel sometimes do in the summer.”

“What did they say? I mean, were they …?”

“They were very worried, just like I was,” Dad says.

“But were they … I mean, what did they say?” Joey’s nervous. I want to hold his hand, but I feel shy with Dad right there in the front seat.

“Mostly they were worried, because they care about you,” Dad says. I can tell that he’s not saying everything. Joey can tell, too. He’s squirming around like he can’t get comfortable.

“Okay,” Joey whispers.

“Don’t worry, son,” Dad says. “They’re going to be very happy to see you.”

“Thanks,” Joey says, but he doesn’t sound thankful. I try to touch his hand, but he jerks it away.

When I wake up, we’re parked in our driveway.

“Okay,” Dad says, “we’re home.” There’s a soft yellow glow in every one of our windows, and I wonder if Rachel decided it was okay, just this once, to waste energy and purposely turned all the lights on so that I’d feel extra welcome.

Joey doesn’t move, but I can’t tell in the dark if it’s because he’s sleeping or because he just doesn’t want to get out of the car. Before I can even poke him, Rachel’s at my door, trying to pull it open. I lift up my button and she’s reaching in, hugging me.

“I’m so sorry, Chirpie.” She’s crying and laughing at the same time. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I can’t believe you actually took a bus to Boston! We were so worried about you. Dad and I were frantic. We were
frantic
.” Her words are spilling all over me. She’s tugging on my hand.

Joey’s just sitting there, not moving. With the car light on, I can see that he’s awake. He’s staring out the window, into the night.

“Joey?”

“Okay,” he whispers, “I
know
.” He carefully opens
the car door like he’s an old man who isn’t sure where he is or where he’s going.

“C’mon, Chirpie,” Rachel says, grabbing my knapsack from the seat and linking her arm through mine.

Now Joey’s out of the car and leaning against the bumper. He’s looking at his house. I want to go stand next to him, just the two of us and no one else for just a minute, but I’m attached to Rachel’s arm.

“Popcorn,” Rachel says. “I’ll make us popcorn with lots of salt.”

Joey takes a few baby steps down our driveway. Even though he’s schlepped his duffel bag everywhere the past two days, it suddenly looks way too heavy for him. I wonder if he’s going to make it across the road.

“I’ll be right back,” I say to Rachel. “Give me a minute.”

“But you just got home and—” She starts walking toward the house, forcing me to follow along.

“No.” I slip my arm out of hers and stand still in the cool night air. My sister reaches for me, but I step back. “No,” I say again.

“Dad?” Rachel says. She sounds worried, like maybe I’m going to slink off into the woods.

“Rach, honey,” Dad says, “it’s okay. The two of them have just shared a lot together. Give your sister a minute.”

Rachel sighs but she catches up with Dad. They walk up our front stairs and go inside.

From the end of our driveway, I watch Joey across the road. He’s moving slowly, lugging his duffel bag up his walkway, dragging it across the bricks like it’s a stubborn basset hound. I’m worried that his parents might hear the scrapey sound and peek out and get mad at him, since he’s probably wearing out the bottom of the bag. When he gets to the steps, he stops and turns around. Is he looking for me? His hair’s shining white in the porch light.

“I’m right here,” I whisper-shout.

He waves. I wave back, but I’m not sure he can see me in the dark. He’s just standing there. He isn’t climbing the couple of steps to his front door. He isn’t turning the doorknob and disappearing inside.

I want to hear an owl. The ancient Greeks believed that if an owl flew over soldiers before a battle, they wouldn’t lose. They wouldn’t get slaughtered by the enemy. It’s another fact about owls that I could have told Joey, that I should have told Joey, when we were in the glass house and he was scared.

Joey’s running back to me. His footsteps sound like a pounding heart.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” I open up my arms. We’re pressed together, holding on tight. His body’s shaking.

“I don’t want to go—”

“We’ll walk to the bus stop every day,” I say into his ear. “We’ll bike to the glass house after school. We’ll hang out in the salt marsh, and when it’s warmer,
we’ll climb to the top of the beech tree and try to see Italy.”

Joey looks at me, his face wet, then at his house again. He shakes his head because he knows that all of our plans can’t save him.

“I guess I’ve got to go,” he whispers.

“Want me to come?” I ask, but we both know the answer.

Joey walks back to his house, slowly, slowly, since the rocks on his head, the rocks in his heart, are weighing him down. He reaches out and rings his doorbell, which means he knows the door is locked. If I were his parents, I wouldn’t lock it if I knew that my runaway son was coming home. I’d leave the door wide open, even if it meant that a bat might fly through and I’d have to shoo it out with a broom, even if it meant that the chilly night air would seep in. If my runaway son was coming home, I’d be standing right there at the open door, waiting to give him a hug and say hello.

The door doesn’t open. Joey rings the bell again. I want to hear an owl. I want to hear any old night bird. Nothing, just tons of spring peepers singing their squeaky little song. I can’t stand watching Joey on his porch while the door stays shut tight.

“Cowabunga,” I whisper, but he can’t hear me.

I’m running across the road, because I feel too alone watching Joey so alone, when suddenly the door jerks open. A big, hairy hand reaches out, grabs
Joey’s jacket, and yanks him, hard, inside. It happens so fast I almost think I’ve imagined it. But his duffel bag is sitting there on the porch, still waiting, like a lonely dog.

Before I know what I’m doing, my fist is knocking, knocking, knocking. I hear one of Joey’s brothers yell, “Jeez, Dad! Just leave the kid alone!”

Mrs. Morell opens the door, tears streaming down her face.

“Yes?” she says, looking back over her shoulder into the house. Joey is wrapped up in Vinnie’s arms. Mr. Morell stomps around them.

“Here,” I say, handing Mrs. Morell the duffel bag. “This is Joey’s.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and starts to close the door.

“Wait!” I say, in my loudest, clearest voice. Mr. Morell stops and stares at me. “Don’t blame Joey. It was
my
idea. He was just being a good friend, a
great
friend, to come along and look out for me. You should be proud of him.”

Vinnie nods and pulls Joey into him tighter.

Joey lifts his head off Vinnie’s chest. “Yeah, Dad. You’re never proud of me,” he says, looking right at Mr. Morell. Then he settles his head back against his brother.