The Understory (29 page)

Before Hans could say a word, Sarah reached too far, and her bright blue T-shirt disappeared into the too-blue water.

“Sarah!” Hans ran toward the pool with his arm outstretched, and his hand, now throbbing, was open wide, ready for Sarah to grasp it. But as Hans reached the pool’s edge, he watched in amazement and horror as Sarah sank in slow motion like a lifeless doll thrown overboard, falling through deep ocean waters.
She fell into the deep end. Of course.
Near them was a jumping rock, the aesthetic answer to an ugly diving board, and by the deep, saturated blueness of the pool, Hans assessed it was the extra deep kind, safe for diving.

She had gasped a couple of times, trying to keep her head above water, but there had been no flailing, no thrashing about, as one might expect from someone who was drowning. Most people would expect that. Most people had no experience with this type of thing. But Hans was not most people; ever since the battle lost with the Crystal River, he’d avoided all water and the dirty word, in all its forms, that usually accompanied it.
Like a drowned rat. Drown your sorrows. Drowning in regret.

Instinct told Hans that if he offered his hand, she would somehow make her way to the surface, and he’d help her to the safety of the poolside concrete. But he soon realized that was not going to happen. What he didn’t know was that Sarah Hartsinger couldn’t swim. She couldn’t float on her back. She couldn’t even tread water. Having been banned from swim lessons after an episode of repetitive, slightly unintelligible, yet still profane, commentary at the age of four, she was the only twelve year old on the block who skipped pool parties and refused to frequent the nearby water park.

“Hang on, Sarah!” Hans hollered, not sure if she could hear him. He dove into the pool and swam down to where she floated, her shiny brown hair waving in the water like silky seaweed. She was still sinking, inch by inch, but now she made slight movements with her arms, and looked up toward the surface where the sun tried to break through. Sarah had held her breath—she’d managed that much—and now looked like a puffer fish, cheeks bursting, eyes bulging a bit.

Hans grabbed her and held her tight, and as they traveled up, up, up toward the sun, he looked at Sarah and saw something in her eyes that he’d seen before—not in
her
eyes, but in another’s. It’s difficult to describe what peace looks like. For a moment, time ceased to be, and Hans heard voices. One was his own.

I’m sorry.

I know.

My hand . . . I tried to hold out—

But you never let go. I did. It’s okay.

Okay?

To let go.

Okay.

This is why you were there.

This?

This.

As they approached the surface, Hans looked at a tranquil Sarah, who looked back at him. And then he knew—he had been there so that the last face she saw before she floated out of his life forever . . . was
his
. When he remembered her eyes, he saw not fear, but hope, and realized she wasn’t in distress.
None of them was.

And then time resumed. The sun broke free from the clouds, the throbbing in Hans’s hands stopped for a moment, and Hans and Sarah emerged through the water’s surface together, strong and buoyant. When sunbeams hit Hans’s skin, they seemed to come from a completely different orb than had lit his world for the past thirty-two years.

Hans loosened his grip on Sarah as they made their way toward the pool’s edge, allowing her to move her own arms a little. And as the finale of his best trick ever, he gently placed Sarah on the concrete patio. Still catching her breath, Sarah gasped, “I . . . take . . . it . . . back. You’re actually . . . a really good . . . magician.”

Hans laughed as he collapsed onto the concrete.

“No . . . really.” She concentrated on breathing in and out, and when she felt her voice might betray her, she remembered the beautiful silence under the water. “That’s why . . . I fell . . . in the pool—I was reaching . . . for that.”

Hans turned his head as Sarah pointed to what she had accidentally let out of her hands—a saturated dollar bill, perfectly flat, floating on the surface of the water. It bobbed a little when insignificant ripples traveled beneath it, but it remained in one spot, anchored like a small green island in a sea of blue. From where they stood, they could faintly see the series of red letters beginning to bleed into the water, but while
destination
had all but disappeared,
journey
, the darker of the two words, remained.

Hans searched for his own words, but it was Sarah, getting to her feet, who spoke in a clear, strong voice, “If magic is real . . .” She let out one big sigh.

By now, the dollar, having drifted to the pool’s edge, bumped into the tiled side in sync with the gentle lapping of undulating water. Sarah leaned over and picked it up, careful not to rip it, and held it flat in her hand. She felt the sun drying her shirt.

Offering her hand to Hans, Sarah looked forward at the pebbled path of step-pingstones leading them away from the water. Soon, the two of them, drenched in chlorinated water, re-entered the party as new guests.

After some simplified explanations of what had happened, Hans finished his magic show wearing a pair of Officer Hudson’s plaid golf pants and an old police academy T-shirt. When it came time to say goodbye, Sarah handed Hans the dollar bill, now dry and without its message.

“Keep it,” Hans said. “Make a new message.”

And in her head, Sarah formed many messages, all clear and unfaltering.

But as Hans breathed in the happy moment, it tasted bittersweet. And then like a good plot twist, his hands began to ache again. Minutes earlier, Hans had discovered the answer to the question he’d asked his whole life, only to replace it with another question. If he was finally able to let go of his past, why did he feel as if something was missing from his future?

At last, he knew why he was here. But he could not help wondering how he got there, and he could not stop thinking about who had brought him. He retraced the last leg of his journey. The Paynes’ broken door, a police station, an unexpected magic gig and reunion with Sarah—all linked together by one beautiful stranger who somehow made him want to stop saving everyone else and save himself.

And then there was the treasure box, and the tiny wooden machete: real art crafted for a real muse.

Hans looked as if he’d just figured out a riddle and wanted to say something, so with a teasing smile, Sarah asked, “Are you gonna tell me a story?”

Suddenly the idea of a story, in-progress and able to be revised, made his hands stop throbbing for a moment. And then he recalled something his mother, the first storyteller he ever heard, used to say.
Stories comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
“Once upon a time,” Hans said for the first time in a long time, “there was a great story.”

A knowing smile settled into Sarah’s face. “What’s her name?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Don’t make me say something inappropriate.”

They both smiled, but neither could possibly say goodbye, so instead, Sarah sang an angelic, happy tune while Hans left her and drove away, down Sunset Drive. He did not think about the end that it implied, but instead about the sunrise.

This time, though, even hopes of the next day’s sunrise left him feeling empty. What good, after all, was a sunrise, when it was viewed by one man, from one window, in one quiet house? Hans knew it didn’t feel right to give up on the sun. And he knew, no matter what, it would still be there tomorrow. But most of all, he knew if he could share its story with a beautiful stranger, his journey would be complete.

“S
o this is it?” Story asked, standing in the middle of Angela’s travel agency office at the end of an extra-long work day. She took the passenger list from her. “Sharon Young . . . Peter Ramirez . . . Teddy Bell . . .” Story said, moving closer to Angela and gliding her finger over each name.

Angela sat at her desk, eyebrows raised and hand outstretched. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Right. Sorry.” Story handed her a brown envelope bulging with green goodness. “I put in a little extra for your efforts.”

Angela’s eyes widened when she felt the weight of it in her hands. “Nice doin’ business with you, Story,” she said with a smile.

In the parking lot in front of the travel agency, Story sat in her car, studying the list, looking for a party of four that were destined for Manaus.
Luke Ross. Rachel Ross. Kaleb Ross. Hannah Ross.
“Bingo!” she said out loud when she saw their address: 1349 24th Street, Scottsdale. She was familiar with the area, having
visited
a nearby home a few weeks back.

There was no time to spare. If Story didn’t get four plane tickets, her plan would be obliterated and Cooper’s birthday would be one major event away from a fairy tale ending. After completing a twenty-minute drive in ten minutes, Story’s Volvo screeched to a stop in front of the Ross residence. She dashed up the walk, and was greeted by a large American flag hanging from a porch beam, swaying in the breeze. The man of the house, Luke Ross, answered the door wearing a baseball cap, jeans, a little silver cross, and a carefree smile that men in their late thirties wear only when they’re on vacation, or on their way.

“Hi,” he said. “Can I help you?”

Yes, you can. You have to.
“I need to talk to you and your wife,” she said, nearly out of breath, “about your trip to Brazil.” Despite her best efforts, Story looked desperate, because she was. “It’s really important,” she said with a grimace, realizing how crazy she sounded.

“Um, okay . . .” he said. “Is there something wrong? Are you from the travel agency?”

Story was tempted to lie. After all, she was getting good at it, and perhaps always was. But she went for truth instead. “I need to get me and three of my friends on your flight to Brazil tomorrow, and you and your family are taking our seats, so we’re gonna have to come to some sort of agreement.”

Luke stammered, his smile waning, as he cowered in his own doorway. “We’re already packed . . . and the kids have been studying Brazilian culture.”

Of course they have.
“Failure’s not an option, Luke.” Story stared him down, standing tall and undaunted.

Luke Ross, confused and unnerved, hollered toward the backyard at the real man of the house. “Honey . . . could ya come here for a minute?” he said. His wife yelled back that she was busy, so Luke motioned for Story to follow him. The two of them walked through the living room and a small kitchen to the back patio, where the pants-wearing Rachel Ross was hunched over a fire pit, shoveling out ashes.

“I’d already showered,” an embarrassed Luke said to explain why his wife, instead of him, was engaged in dirty work. “Honey, this is . . .” Luke said to his wife, and looked to Story for clarification.

“Story Easton,” Story said, extending her hand to the dirty stranger.

“Oh, I don’t want to get you all messy,” Rachel said as she stood up, wearing smeared ashes on her face and hands. A little silver cross, just like Luke’s, hung proudly from her neck. She mumbled, “Just finishing up some chores around here before our big . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t catch who you were.”

“There’s some sort of problem with the trip,” Luke said from five paces away, sneaking back into the house in case it got ugly.

“Problem?” Rachel said, guarded and stern, taking a small step toward Story.

Ugh!
Story glanced down at her watch and stared at the second hand, ticking away toward failure. She needed a new angle, so she looked out into their yard at a slice of Americana. With a blue-sky backdrop, the two Ross children, wearing Levis and T-shirts, jumped up and down on a trampoline. “Ah, they must be Kaleb and Hannah,” said Story. “They’re darling.”

Rachel Ross was not impressed. “Who are you, exactly?”