The Understory (13 page)

“No, she’s right. We usually do call first,” Story said. “But this is a very special prize, a special promotion—”

“I knew you were selling something,” Claire said, shaking her head.

Acting nonchalant, Story twirled more spaghetti on her fork while conjuring up some drama in her voice. “Well, if you consider getting the greatest adventure of your lives for free
selling,
I guess you’re right. I
am
selling something.” She looked at Cooper. “I’m selling the chance of a lifetime.” Maintaining her stare, she raised her finger. “One chance.”

The thrill was too much for Cooper, and he got so excited he actually froze in his chair, mouth agape.

Claire looked at Story with a clear, maternal message designed to protect her already fragile son:
Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

But Story had never felt more confident in her life. There she was, sitting in a house she’d already broken into once, having dinner with two broken people who couldn’t afford to get more broken, faced with breaking a promise which could lead to the destruction of the one non-annoying child in the universe, and yet, she’d never felt more together. She had to pull this off.

Story put down her fork, looked at both Claire and Cooper, and folded her hands. “It’s a trip. To a magical, faraway place.”

“Like Neverland?” Cooper asked, leaning forward.

“Sort of,” Story said, “but less Michael Jackson, more Peter Pan.”

“Will there be swords?”

“Yep.”

“What about alligators?”

“Definitely.”

Then Cooper glanced at his mom. “What about fairies? Magical places are always dark. Fairies give you light.”

“Yes, there’ll be at least one fairy.” Story wanted to give him a little nugget of what she’d come for, so she turned to Cooper. “But the best thing . . . is the treasure.”

The whole table fell silent for a moment until Cooper yelled, “Mom! We’re going to find It!”

Claire Payne looked into Story’s eyes. “Okay, I get it. This is one of those panoramic nature movies. We’ve already seen all the IMAX films. And we took a family trip two years ago to Cairo and saw all sorts of buried Egyptian treasure.”

“It’s not a movie. It’s a real place, a destination our magazine’s been covering, in depth, for the last six months. Your family’s been chosen to help deliver a firsthand account of the region’s—”

“It’s the rainforest, isn’t it?!” Cooper said, barely in his seat. “It has to—”

“Coop, it’s not the—”

“It is,” Story said, feeling like Willy Wonka, Ed McMahon, and Santa all at the same time. Cooper’s excitement only fueled her as she entered the Zone, that creative place she always entered right before she penned the perfect greeting card catchphrase and tricked people into believing they were special. “We named the sweepstakes ‘It’s Your Forest, Too,’ to highlight how we’re all connected to the rainforest, and by inviting a regular family to see its beauty, readers will get a more real look at what the rainforest has to offer, instead of the usual scientific, photosynthesis, global warming crap.”

As soon as she said it, Story realized she didn’t sound very professional. “I mean, science is great—we’ve based a whole magazine on it—but there’s something magical about the rainforest that the common observer rarely gets to see.”

“Which rainforest?” Cooper asked with trepidation. Under the table, he crossed his fingers and toes, hoping it would be the right one.

“The Amazon, of course. Is there any other?” Story said, channeling Martin Baxter’s moxie for the moment. “But there’s a catch.”

“I knew it!” Claire said. “All for the low, low price of ten thousand dollars, right?!” She hung her head and mumbled, “
This
is why I don’t believe in people.”

Catching a nervous glance from Cooper, Story said, “No, we pay for everything, ma’am, and take care of all travel arrangements. The catch is . . . we leave in three days—”

“We’ll be there for my birthday!” Cooper jumped out of his chair and ran to his mother’s side.

“Just a minute!” Claire yelled. “Everyone just wait a goddamned minute!!” she screamed.

“Mom, are you gonna say the ‘F’ word?”

Claire started clearing the table, crashing dishes together. “We can’t leave the country in two days.” Until that moment, Claire had thought the whole trip idea was ridiculous, even a bit eerie, but when it was time to give the reasons why they couldn’t go, she couldn’t think of any.

Story and Cooper waited.

“I’m a doctor!” she finally remembered. “My patients need me.”

“She’s not a real doctor,” Cooper scoffed. “She just asks people questions.” He began mimicking his mother. “How do you
feel
about that? How is that working for you?”

Can I go anywhere without my mother?
Story wondered.

A calmer Claire asked, “Seriously, I’ve never heard of winning a prize with a deadline. Why can’t we just postpone—”

Story screeched, “Postpone?! No offense, Claire, but this a cutting-edge voyage. Some very smart people have worked out an innovative idea here—it’s never been done before—and they don’t want a stale, planned trip. They want to see your spontaneous reaction to a world that thrives on adaptability.” On a roll, Story continued to pull rainforest-type words out of her ass. “You don’t catch the . . . poison dart tree frog hopping around with a scheduled itinerary. He
adapts
. And that thing that looks like a pig . . .”

“A tapir,” Cooper interjected.

“Thank you. You don’t see a tapir planning out his afternoons. Why? Because he doesn’t know whether he’s gonna take a crap, take a nap, or get ripped to shreds by a jaguar!”

“Awesome!” Cooper yelled.

“So, Claire,” said Story, “the field crew thinks impulsiveness is paramount here. They’ll be capturing it with their cameras, in interviews.” And then, caught up in her performance, she looked over at the door for effect. “I’m surprised they’re not here yet.”

Claire Payne, trying to look as if she didn’t care, smoothed her hair down and moistened her lips so she’d be camera ready.

Then, Story borrowed words from someone who really knew what he was talking about. “It’s not a trip, Claire. It’s a
journey
.”

Just then, the doorbell rang. “Is it them? Is it the camera people?” Cooper asked, while Claire peered out the window and saw a workman’s truck.

“No,” she said. “It’s the door guy from this morning. What’s he doing here?”

As Story sank in her chair, the meatballs rebelled against her stomach and came dangerously close to coming back up.

Shit.

“S
orry to bother you, Dr. Payne, but I think I forgot my planer,” Hans said to Claire as Story and Cooper listened from the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong?” Cooper whispered when he looked at Story, wide-eyed, her hot seat getting hotter.

“Think I might have left it on the kitchen counter when I was packing up.” Hans’s voice trailed off as Claire followed him over to the kitchen table. When Cooper said hello, Hans shook his hand, and then, to Claire’s surprise, asked Cooper to check his own pants pocket. When he did, he pulled out a long, silk scarf, first red, then yellow, then green, until finally, four feet later, purple.

“Cool! How’d you do that?” Cooper said.

“I didn’t do it. You did,” Hans said. Without missing a beat, he gave his attention to Story, pretending to look surprised. “Hey, Story, nice to see you again,” he said with a wink only Story could see.

“You two know each other?” a confused Claire asked. “I thought you were from out of town—”

Story’s meatballs rebelled again. “I am. We don’t—”

“We met this morning,” Hans said, smiling. “Spending some quality time with your sister?”

All eyes were on Story. “I dropped by to give you your prize this morning,” she said, “but you guys had already left, and I ran into him instead.”

“Technically, you ran into my hammer—”

I’m gonna shove your big hammer right up your . . .
“Yeah, and then we talked about how, while I’m in Phoenix, I’m gonna visit my sister.”

Hans kept up his warm smile, but it took on a sinister slant. “What’s her name again? Your sister?”

Story scratched her head and spewed out the first name she could think of. “Ivy.”

Claire said, “How nice you have family here. Ivy’s a nice name.”

“Not really,” Story muttered, grabbing her purse. “Look, I feel bad I’ve imposed. I’ll come by tomorrow to discuss the particulars, and we’ll begin making our arrangements,” she said, dashing out of the kitchen, past Hans.

But he touched her shoulder as she walked by. “Wait,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “Don’t you think it’s cool that we have two doctors in one house right now? I mean, if I were ever gonna accidentally pound a nail in my—”

“You’re a doctor?” Claire asked Story, who now looked very much like a deer caught in bright, unforgiving headlights.

Hans said, “Yeah, she specializes in p—”

“Plants,” Story said, before Hans had a chance to whip out his big hammer and ask to have it examined. “I’m a botanist. That’s why they put me on this assignment,” Story said, now unsure and awkward. “The Amazon has a lot of crazy plants.”

Hans laughed. “Oh, those
crazy
plants. You’re very scientific, Dr. Plant Lady.”

“Am I missing something here?” said Claire.

Again, all eyes turned to Story for an explanation, and just as Story was about to experiment with honesty, her cell phone rang. For once, she was thankful it was her mother.

“Mom?” Story said. On her way out of the kitchen, she motioned to Claire and Cooper that she’d be right back, and then scurried down the hall toward the den. When she flipped on the light, Sonny greeted her.

“Fuck it all!” he squawked.

“Oh, fuck you, you mean bird,” Story said, flipping the bird the bird.

Story’s mother gasped. “I beg your pardon, young lady—”

“Sorry, I was talking to someone else.”

Beverly Easton sighed, then asked the first of her many questions. “What exactly is your malfunction, Story Thyme Easton?”

“I told you never to call me that, Mom.”

“You mean, your
name
?” Beverly said.

“Seriously, Mom.
Story Time
? Am I a person, or a monthly event at the children’s library?” And then she muttered, “
There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.
”

Beverly scoffed, “Easy. C. S. Lewis,” and then added, without missing a beat, “Your middle name is a tribute to your dear grandmother Harriet. She was very fond of herbs. Thyme is known for its
bitter
taste, you know.” She waited a moment, and then employed, once again, the Socratic Method. “Story Thyme—how does that name make you feel?”

“I feel like a kiddie-porn star!” Story screamed into the phone, no doubt loud enough for Cooper, Claire, and Hans to hear out in the kitchen. “There are other herbs, you know. Sage is cool, and Rosemary—that’s actually a real name that doesn’t make me sound like a circus sideshow freak.”

“But Story Thyme is unique,” Beverly said with a scoff. “You have to admit that it’s pretty special.”

Story thought about it for a moment, and spoke in calm, quiet voice. “Names don’t make us feel special, Mom. People do.”

Beverly Easton paused. “Why do you think that is?”

This time, Story didn’t get angry. She just answered, “It’s the way of the world, Mom.”

“I see.” After a long pause, she said what she called to say. “Do you need a dress? For the gala party?”

“Um,” Story stammered, “I, uh . . . Something’s come up, Mom, something really important. I mean, it’s important I don’t screw this up, so I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to your party.”

Beverly Easton gave up asking questions for the moment, and switched from the interrogative to the declarative. “Just because your name is bitter doesn’t mean
you
need to be.”

“I’m not trying to be bitter, Mom. I’m just trying to do something decent.”

“So am I.”

“I’ll try to make it, Mom,” Story said, hanging up just as Hans walked in.

“You all right?” he asked, walking toward her. “If it’s any consolation, you don’t look like a kiddie-porn star. Adult porn star, maybe, after some work.”

“Thanks,” she said, swiveling in the desk chair, maintaining her glare.

As Hans walked past Sonny, the bird squawked, “Miss you.”

Story shook her head. “You have a way with birds.”

Hans was now standing in front of Story. “What can I say? The ladies love me.”

“It’s a boy,” she said. After a pause, she added, “Are you trying to bury me out there or what? I know it looks bad, but I’m doing something right for once, and I’m sure you’re a really great guy, but . . . I need you to get out of my way.”

Hans just stared. “Face of an angel, mouth of a truck driver. You remind me of a girl I met today.”

“Are you listening to me?” she asked, and he nodded. “Look,” she said, “I don’t expect you to understand, but just play along. If you give me away, everything will be ruined, and . . .” She waved her hands in front of Hans’s face. “He
needs
this.”