The Understory (3 page)

Story didn’t know it yet, but she and Martin wanted similar things. Martin wanted to become the man he used to be, and Story wanted to become the woman she didn’t know she could be.

Once Martin had returned upstairs, Story went to the closet and grabbed the final element in her quest to be someone else—the slippers. And as she snuggled into someone else’s bed in someone else’s house, wearing someone else’s slippers, she began to fall asleep. But this time, in this house, the comfort didn’t come so easily. She felt a little guilty. This was new.

Maybe it was something I ate
, she thought.

Maybe I should unsubscribe to the Lifetime Channel.

Maybe I should grow a pair.

Maybe I shouldn’t have seen the obituary for “the greatest kid on the planet.”

Or maybe, just this once, for solidarity’s sake, I should try not to dream.

A
cross town from where Story Easton secretly settled into Martin Baxter’s home, Cooper Payne sat on the edge of his bed, dangling his eight-year-old legs in anticipation of his personal oasis—the one that always came at night. In Phoenix, even the most faithless Phoenicians could rely on at least one thing: sun. But with three hundred days of sun each year came thirst-causing heat, a constant reminder of the city’s namesake, a fabled bird burning to death on its very own funeral pyre. Yet with death came the possibility of rebirth, and in Phoenix, any hope of renewal came at night, when body and soul dreamt of a fertile oasis amidst an arid wasteland.

So on this Sunday night, moonlight pierced through layers of clouds, some dense and stubborn, some sparse and carefree, all providing a soft filter for a night sky teeming with stars so brilliant, they flickered long after you closed your eyes.

But Cooper’s eyes were wide open.

“Mom.” That’s all he had to say, because she knew what he wanted. It was what he always wanted. Instead of clinging to a soft security blanket, as he used to when he was younger, Cooper firmly gripped a green, wood-handled umbrella.

“Oh, Coop,” Claire whispered as she sat down on his rumpled twin bed and caressed his warm bed-head. “I was thinking we could read the
new
book I bought you, the one about knights.” She added, “It’s got swords—and dragons!”

With resolve, Cooper rested the umbrella on his shoulder, folding his small hands together as if he’d wait forever. Too old to wear his little boy Spider-Man jammies, and too young to wear the shirt-and-pants pajamas he’d seen dads wear in movies, he wore oversized nylon basketball shorts, which exposed his legs, olive-skinned and bony. On top, he wore a
Star Wars
T-shirt with
Come to the Dark Side: We Have Cookies
centered on the front.

After a heavy sigh, Claire conceded by opening the drawer of Cooper’s bedside table and taking out a worn, much-loved book. She put it in her lap, resting one hand on the front cover, and then tucked her other hand underneath the back cover, touching the dark underbelly of the thing that held a relentless spell over her only son.

They assumed their usual positions, backs against the walnut headboard, with two navy blue pillows sandwiched between them, just right for a comfortable read. Part of Cooper was embarrassed by all of this. He was, after all, the ripe old age of eight, and he wouldn’t want anyone at school to know his
mommy
had to read to him every night so he could sleep. But he
did
need her to—and she did it, even though it meant going to bed later. Much later. This book was geared toward avid, “tweener” readers—it was funny, flippant, and illustrated with cool, edgy artwork, but it was also longer than picture books designed for younger kids. Cooper once heard his mother mumble, “Why couldn’t you have become obsessed with something short, like
Green Eggs and Ham
?”

They both stared at the title on the front cover, as if they’d never seen it before. “
Once Upon A Moonflower
,” Claire said in a tone so lonely one would think she had been abandoned in the Amazon without a machete.

“Written by Martin Baxter.”

When she opened the book and turned the first page without speaking, Cooper shook his head. He almost said, “Nuh-uh, Mom, that’s not how
he
did it,” but instead he looked up at her with his dark brown eyes, where sadness had grown accustomed to settling, and waited for her to correct herself.

“Sorry,” she said, “forgot.”

But Cooper knew she hadn’t forgotten. This page was always the hardest for her. She turned back and read the dedication without emotion, because if she slipped up and thought about the words on the page, she might have ruined bedtime. Again.

“Dedicated to my daughter Hope, the project I’m most proud of.”

She then turned the page, and once again, Claire Payne began reading Cooper the story he needed to hear. The story that took them to another place—a place not of this world.

A F
AIRY
T
ALE

(or A Tale of a Fairy)

*Due to its graphic (real) and cerebral (smart) nature, this story is not recommended for small children, unless they are really, really brave.

Written by Martin Baxter

Dedicated to my daughter Hope, the project I’m most proud of.

Dear Reader,

What you’re about to read is my all-time favorite fairy tale, but that’s probably because I’m in it. And you should know that I was totally honest in retelling what happened to me, except for the part about me being really scared of the dark. I wasn’t that scared.

Anyway, enjoy the story. And remember, If You Can Imagine It, You Can Do It! Unless, of course, the thing you’re imagining is absurdly difficult, and if that’s the case, you always have your dreams. Unless you can’t sleep. Then you should just rearrange your room or something.

Oh, yeah, almost forgot. Don’t be afraid of the spooky parts, and don’t worry about me (especially when the cranky jaguar tries to eat me) because I don’t die. I live happily . . . well, you know the rest. It’s how all good stories end. And you probably know how they all begin, too.

So here it goes.

Love,

Hope

O
nce upon a time, there was a girl named Hope, who lived in the heart of the rainforest.

Oops. Let me start over. Forgot I was the star.

O
nce upon a time, something really crazy happened to me: I woke up in the heart of the rainforest. And I mean the daddy of all rainforests—the great and magical Amazon. I’d say “amazing” Amazon, but that would be redundant. (“Redundant” means “superfluous”.) (And “superfluous” means “extra”.) My bad. I like big words.

Anyway, instead of waking up in our Portland house, like I did every other morning for the last nine years, I woke up in a fetal (baby-like) position, curled up on the forest floor in my purple, flannel pajamas. Very cute, by the way. Thank you, Santa.

“What is this place?” I said to a giant sloth clinging to the branch of a large kapok (very, very tall) tree.

The happy sloth spoke in a slow sloth voice. “It is home.”

Honestly, I thought maybe he was, you know, “special,” because he did everything in super-slow motion, but he was my only acquaintance (companion) in a strange land, which certainly wasn’t like home at all. I didn’t feel my soft bed, or see any of my books, or smell Dad’s chocolate-chip pancakes. Where I came from, good days were welcomed by bright golden sun. But here it was dark and shady with only small slivers of sunlight peeking through the canopy of trees above.

“What do you do here?” I asked the sluggish sloth.

Still clinging to the smooth, gray branch, he turned his head slightly and said, “I hang on.”

Duh. “Do you ever let go?” I asked, looking up at him from a pile of dead leaves where I now stood.

My new friend flashed a leisurely smile. “Only when I have to.”

I looked up through the roof of tangled trees and wished for more sun. “Okay, funny little trick someone pulled, but I want to go back home now, to my home,” I said.

“Don’t be sad,” said the sloth. “The forest will help you. It helps everybody.” Still hanging on, he added, “But first you must find the treasure box—it holds all the magic of the forest. And then you must find the moonflower.”

“Moonflower?” I said. The mere mention of the moon made me tremble. “But I can’t be here when night comes!” I yelled. I couldn’t be here in the dark.

The sloth slowly adjusted his grip. “It is the only way—the treasure box will give you what you need, and the moonflower will give you a home.”

“I already have a home,” I said, “away from here!”

The sloth’s voice grew stern, like my dad’s when he was trying to make a point. “Have some faith. First the treasure box, then the moonflower.” I wasn’t there five minutes, and already I had a list of chores. Maybe this place was home. “But beware of the Fierce One,” the sloth continued. “He will begin to prowl at sundown, and for each one of his spots, he has taken a life. You must go now.”

As soon as he said it, before I even had a chance to enjoy being lost in a horribly dangerous jungle, a giant water boa nudged her way underneath me until I had no choice but to ride sidesaddle atop her coils, and begin the next leg of my journey.

And suddenly the small amount of sun sneaking through the trees shrank to one tiny glimmer, and I began to shiver, thinking about surviving the night in this dark, scary place. It made spending the night at Grandma Margaret’s seem inviting, meatloaf and all.

The facts were staggering (dismal) (bad). I had vanished into the jungle. I was riding a potentially lethal (deadly) (flippin’ scary!) snake. And some spotted, fierce creature wanted me dead at nightfall. I wondered if I could dream my way out this nightmare, so I strengthened my grip on the snake’s scales and closed my eyes. But when I opened them, the only thing that disappeared was the sun, and all I could do was hang on.

I
f Phoenix was a jungle, Story Easton lived in the understory. Before she took up breaking and entering, you could say she lived on the forest floor—a microscopic organism hiding in the shadows, an easy target for the shit-droppings from those with higher positions. But now that she’d found a new passion, a nighttime habit more active than watching bacteria grow, she was ascending the layers, and now lived where shelter was provided, and everything around her enjoyed a nocturnal existence. Like a jaguar on the prowl, she lurked about, searching not for food, but for a new identity. She tried different branches of different trees to see how they felt, and when the sun came up, she went back to her sleepy life, going through the motions without intent.