The Understory (18 page)

Hans held the tattered photo in his large hand, careful not to drop it and, once again, let her down. He put it back in the box, on top of five years of tax returns, and when he put the lid back on, he made sure it was askew, letting in light, if only a little. He then looked out the window at the sunshine drowning the Arizona horizon, and as he let some of the arid warmth of the desert-heaven, with canyons instead of rivers, touch his skin, he pretended they were together, safe, on dry land, and reminded himself why he’d moved here.

And while still in his desert-heaven, he remembered the women in his life he’d tried to save, but couldn’t. In high school it had been Nicolette, the beautiful girl who didn’t think she was. And in college it had been Whitney, too preoccupied with her bright future to live in the present, and of course, long before that, it had been Greta, the dreamer. Hans’s hands, now saturated with memory, pulsed with the familiar, painful throb that never let him forget.

Was Hans a bad fixer, or could all of them simply not be saved? Every time he’d said goodbye to one of them, his hands ached, and all he could do was ask,
Why am I here?
—why, when he couldn’t save any of them?

A
s Hans Turner relegated stories to his past, Story Thyme Easton rolled into work late, imagining ways to “accidentally” feed Ivy weed-killer. She’d already made her rounds with the other writers, and now stood in Story’s cubicle. In her dark green power suit, she blended in with the evergreen carpet in a perfect camouflage. “Nice you could join us,” she said, her long fingers wrapped around Story’s favorite pencil, devouring it with a twisty clench.

“That’s my lucky pencil,” Story said, trying to free it from Ivy’s tight grip. “That pencil’s made you a lot of money, Boss.”

“Yes, it has.” Ivy let it go and inched her way over to the cubicle entrance. “I expect it to continue to do its job.” She gave Story a direct look. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Story lifted her head high and scratched it. “That depends. Is the community pencil sharpener working?” Ivy cut office supply costs by having only one pencil sharpener, a source of contention for all the writers who preferred to use pencils for first drafts. Ivy scoffed and let out a sigh, which couldn’t decide if it was irritated or just bored. Story touched her unsharpened pencil and observed her boss, as nondescript as her sigh, and said, “You know how I hate dull things.”

Ivy tugged at the fake handkerchief peeking out of her suit pocket, trying to look more interesting, but ended up walking away, uttering her usual commentary—lame and empty. “Sharp tongue, Little Lady,” she said, “sharp tongue.”

Story sat down with her lucky pencil, held it tight, and hoped it would help her do the impossible. In the next forty-eight hours, she needed to plan a trip to the Amazon for herself, Claire, Cooper, a nonexistent camera crew, and one door-maker/magician who’d blackmailed his way into coming. And according to her preliminary research, planning a trip on such short notice would cost about twenty-thousand dollars, which was twenty-thousand more than she had.

She squeezed the pencil and thought of Cooper’s face when he found out he’d be in the Amazon for his birthday, seeing the greatest promise of his life come to fruition. She smiled as she saw flashes of Cooper’s future, after discovering the treasure box at such a crucial juncture in his life. She saw Cooper as a grinning young man, faith intact, having lived a childhood full of baseball games, sleepovers, and Valentines from girls who saw light in his eyes.

But as she tightened her grip, she saw a different life, a
what if
life.
What if
she failed?
What if
she didn’t come through on her promise? What if she failed to lead Cooper to his destiny in the rainforest? She saw a jaded Cooper on the verge of manhood, sitting in a cubicle like hers, too empty to even entertain his dreams, the hole left by his dead father still gaping and neglected.

And then, an even more depressing thought—
what if
the second version of Cooper’s life was, in fact, his destiny? Who was Story to meddle? Maybe not everyone could be saved. Maybe some people aren’t supposed to be saved. Maybe magic is a false hope for most, and real only to a select few. Maybe Cooper, like Story, was doomed to live in nighttime.

Maybe.

But maybe Cooper’s fate didn’t rely on magic at all. Maybe it relied on one person to follow through on a promise David Payne could not fulfill. And who else was going to try?

Story suddenly saw the big number one from Cooper’s bulletin board everywhere she looked.
One
on the giant wall clock, tick-tocking to the next deadline.
One
on an old to-do list.
One
on the first page of the newspaper on her desk.
One
lurked in her memory to remind her that everyone gets one big chance in life. She formed a number one with her index finger, trying to find one reason why she should abandon her impossible quest.

When her office phone rang, she knew it was her mother—the woman was so powerful she could even affect the sound of her ring. It exploded into the series of repetitive, shrieking bleeps heard from most office phones, but with the Beverly Easton sense of urgency.

“So? Are you coming tonight?” she said, more demanding and awake than Story thought anyone should ever be before noon.

Shit.
Gala parties were not part of her trip-planning agenda, but she knew her mother would not take no for an answer, so she decided to put her off. “Sure, Mom, I’ll be there.”

“Okay . . .” Beverly said, clearly unconvinced. “Seven o’clock.” She paused. “I’m counting on you, Story.”

“Join the club, Mother,” Story said. “I’ll even put on mascara and try not to embarrass you.”

Most mothers would have denied their own daughters ever embarrassed them, but Beverly Easton ended their conversation with, “Good.”

An exasperated Story hung up the phone, picked up her pencil again, and began drawing on her desk calendar in hopes of doodling her way to a solution. Feeling as though she was losing a race that hadn’t even begun, she scribbled
Ready, Set, Go
over and over until she was reminded of her destination.
To . . . the jungle. To . . . the moonflower. To . . . the treasure box.
She then focused on what she needed.
Money.
The paper in front of her was riddled with goals, hopes, and obstacles, and as she stared at the words, they danced around a bit, but when they settled, three of them stood out.
Go
popped out first. Then
To
. And finally,
Money
. Then she remembered what Martin had said the day before. “Go to the money.”

Judge Stone.

After finding the address for the man Martin had mentioned, she grabbed her purse and tore out of the office. When Story looked back at the maze of interlocking cubicles, she saw Ivy’s head and green suit collar emerge from the middle of the maze. Ivy remained silent, but gave Story a deadly glare.

Story raised her hands, and said, “I have no choice, Boss.”

“Where are you going
now
?” she hollered in a bossy tone.

Story hollered back, “To the money!”

M
artin Baxter crammed himself into a third-grader’s desk chair at West Hills Elementary School, gave himself a gold star for attendance, and waited to begin his presentation. He sat in the rear of the classroom, watching the backs of small heads bob back and forth as the rosy-cheeked teacher smiled and gave directions in a slow, drawn-out cadence.

As she instructed her students to put away their crayons and paper, Martin felt an indescribable sadness come over him. It felt incongruous. Nearby was the fun fake castle in the corner, and the cheery drapes painted to look like a piano keyboard. Despite the hint of happy adventure, Martin felt sad, and therefore alone—the only one in the room who, no matter how hard he tried, could find only sorrow. It all reminded him of her—the waxy smell of the Crayolas, the little Levis worn by small, shiny-haired girls, the sun flooding through the windows.

The university had made him a mandatory volunteer for its new outreach program, in which faculty members presented their published work, in layman’s terms, to area grade schools. Exposing local children to pro-rainforest tenets would help promote an environmentally conscious community, they were told, but what the university really wanted was to facilitate Martin’s healing process. On hiring him, they had no idea how much his past would affect his work, and they were eager to help Martin become a world-class scientist again.

But sending Martin Baxter to a grade school to forget about his grief was like sending a fat man to a fudge factory to forget about his hunger. When Martin placed
Once Upon A Moonflower
on top of the little desk, it occurred to him that Hope should have been sitting there with him, coloring, learning new things, and smiling as her father read the book he’d written for her. This was Martin’s last engagement before beginning, in just two days, his quest to see the moonflower, and he decided to do his best and get it over with.

“Dr. Baxter? We’re ready for you,” Mrs. Olson said, after she’d assembled the seventeen cross-legged third-graders in three rows on the floor. Some folded their hands, two whispered in each other’s ears, and one picked his nose, but most looked at least somewhat intrigued. Martin had no cookie treats or free giveaway prizes, so he’d have to offer something interesting. The last guest speaker, from the local bakery, had brought five dozen donut holes and free baby-whisks for everyone. And they still complained about not getting chocolate cake. Nine year olds were a tough audience.

Martin took his place in front of the class, book in hand, and said, “Um, I’m Dr. Baxter, here from—”

“Are you a
real
doctor?” one of the boys blurted, “or are you just one of those guys who reads a lot, so we have to call you a doctor?”

“Joey!” the teacher said from the back of the room. “That’s not how we talk to our guests.”

Martin, shaking his head, said, “Actually, I can’t read. It’s been a real bitch, too, going to school for eight years, and not being able to read. But I make enough money to hire someone to read everything to me, so that’s nice.”

All of the kids covered their mouths, not because he’d uttered a swear word, but because he’d denounced the holy concept of reading, which was the focus of all seven posters hung in the room. The teacher wasn’t sure how to respond to Martin’s strange comment, but there was one little girl in the room who got the joke, and she began to laugh. When Martin smiled at Hillary, she tucked her shiny hair behind her ears and smiled back.

“Okay,” Martin said, opening his book. “
Once Upon A Moonflower
, written by—”

A polite Hillary raised her hand. “Actually, Dr. Baxter, we already read your book yesterday, and Mrs. Olsen explained it to us so we wouldn’t look stupid,” she said.

“Now, Hillary,” said Mrs. Olsen, “it’s his book, and I’m sure he’d love to read some of it to you.”

“Nonsense,” Martin said. “They already know what’s going to happen. Where’s the fun in that?”

After an uncomfortable pause, Mrs. Olson said, “Maybe you could take some questions from the class, Dr. Baxter.”

He nodded, and called on the first hand he saw, that of James in the back row. “Did you bring cookies?”

Skipping that question altogether, he called on a brown-haired girl. “Go ahead . . . ?”

“Kirsten,” she said.

“Go ahead, Kristen.”

“No, not Kristin,
Keeeerston
.”

“Sorry.
Kuuuurston
.”

“No, it’s—”

“Just call her K-Something. That’s what I call her,” Hillary said, smiling. “Tell us about your job. It sounds cool.”

Joey struck again when he laughed and said, “Yeah. Really cool.” And when he added, “He studies
plants
,” the class laughed.

“So, Joey,” Martin said, “ever had a cut or scrape?”