The Understory (32 page)

For some things, there are no words, so for a while, as the two of them lay entangled in the moon’s strong light, they said nothing. But finally, Story rested her head on Hans’s chest and let out a little laugh. “So . . . since I really, really, really like you, that makes me
not
a slut for having sex with you on a second date. Right?”

He gently kissed the top of her head. “We’re counting this as a date?” he laughed, and Story play-slapped him. He sighed and brushed a piece of shiny auburn hair away from her eye. “I’ve always wanted to date a slut.”

Story laughed with him, partly because she knew if she spoke too much, she’d ruin everything, and partly because he’d already proven his affection. He’d carved it into a masterpiece that sat on the floor just two feet away from them, waiting to be opened.

“I
have
met your mother, you know,” he said. “So I’m pretty sure that absolves you from sluthood.” And while he caressed her bare shoulder, Story enjoyed watching his magic hands move up-close.

“Come with me,” Story blurted. Hans smiled, and it made Story blush. “No, seriously. I still have your ticket . . . and it was never going to be the same without you . . . and even if you get sick of me, you can just think of it as a vacation, and—”

“Okay.”

Story watched both of their chests move up and down for several breaths before she could speak. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he said again, now laughing. Then he said, “But I’m not saving your cute ass from jungle predators. You’re on your own,” which Story knew was bullshit.

“Okay.” Story got giddy when she thought about the two of them romping around the jungle on their third date. “Okay,” she said, turning her head so he didn’t see her wide, pleased smile. She knew she should probably quit talking, but something in her wanted to explain to him why the trip was so important. She proceeded with trepidation. “If I pull this off,” she sighed, “if I don’t screw this up, people’s lives might actually . . .”

For once, Hans spoke for her. “Change?” With some hesitation, he said, “Are you sure you need a jungle for that to happen?”

Yes, I need the jungle to pull this off. What kind of question is that?
she thought.
I’m in charge of this rescue mission.
The universe must have been watching out for her, though, because before speaking, she paused long enough to see the truth. Hans actually thought she could change her life as surely as she could change Cooper’s—as surely as she’d changed his—and damn it if she wasn’t starting to believe it. She thought about all of the homes she’d broken into, seeking someone else’s identity, and realized she’d taken the easy way out. Anyone can pretend to be someone who makes things better, but it’s another thing to really do it. Story had resolved to help someone else, and for both their sakes, she had to succeed.

She took a deep breath. “Maybe I don’t need the jungle for it to happen, but Cooper does.”

Satisfied with her answer, Hans responded in a resolved, confident tone, “Then to the jungle we’ll go.”

“Okay,” she said.

Hans snuggled up next to her. “Okay.” And then, as if he’d forgotten to mention an important contractual clause, he said, “But first, you have to make three secret wishes.” When Story raised her eyebrows, he smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Just humor me. It’s a thing my mom used to make us do before we went on trips.”

Us?
thought Story. But satisfied with the reason, Story said, “Why three?”

“Why three?!” he teased, pulling Story on top of him. “Because there is power in the number three.” Story straddled his body and returned the smile. He pulled her closer and kissed her three times: once on her forehead, once on her cheek, and once on her plump, pouty lips. “Think about it. There’s the Three Musketeers,” he said with a kiss. “The Three Kings,” with another kiss. “The Three Wise Men,” with a third kiss. “And think of fairy tales—the Three Little Pigs, the Three Bears—two things are just a coincidence, but three things make . . . magic.” When he said
magic
, he couldn’t help but laugh, and wave his hands over her face as if she was his act’s finale.

Story accepted it. After all, stories did work in threes.
Beginning, middle, end.
And people worked in threes.
Birth, life, death.

“Okay,” Story said, closing her eyes. “I made my wishes. Your turn.”

Hans stared deep into her. “Done.”

When he let the back of his hand glide over her chest, she held back a giggle. “We have an early start tomorrow. We should probably get some sleep.”

Hans smiled and touched her with both hands now. “Probably.”

Outside, the Phoenix skyline twinkled, and the stars competed with the moon to see which could shine brighter. Inside, where light from both found its way into their bed, Hans and Story tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep.

M
artin Baxter sat on a bed of pink, accompanied by a yellow cartoon sun, and stared at the understory painted on the wall in front of him. He sipped his whiskey and Coke, and let the magnitude of tomorrow’s trip swirl inside him along with the alcohol. He relocated his gaze from the bustling understory to the canopy, the upper limit that acted as a threshold between the forest and the sky.
Everybody loves the canopy.
To the lesser-trained eye, the canopy had allure and mystery. Those unfamiliar with what it takes to create life, and sustain it, viewed the canopy, the layer closest to the sun, as a final destination—but the real work was actually done closer to the ground.

The house was quiet, something he’d tried to get used to, but never had. He picked up
Once Upon A Moonflower,
sitting on the bedside table, and forced himself to open it. He recalled another time he’d tried to read it, a year before, in a dark lecture hall full of students. After he’d delivered a lecture about shade-loving plants of the Amazon, a student in the front row asked Martin to read from his latest book. He tried to get out of it, but the girl held it up in the air and challenged him. He could never resist the call to adventure, so he began reading his book by podium light. The only words he got to read before he was interrupted were
For Hope, the project I’m most proud of.
As soon as he’d said it, two police officers casting mean shadows on the lecture hall wall uttered words that still haunted him.
I’m sorry. Horrible accident. So sorry.

A year later, he still had trouble opening the cover, but something inside him, not the scientist but the man, told him he needed to. When he turned the page and saw
For Hope, the project I’m most proud of,
he nodded, knowing, without thinking, that he hadn’t changed his mind about that. He touched the words on the page, remembering the girl who had inspired them.

“I’m coming!” Martin said, laughing. “For the fifth time, I’m coming.”

“Dad, come on, it’s time to finish it. I feel it!” Hope hollered. When Martin arrived, he found Hope sitting at a little white desk in her room, holding a yellow spiral notebook opened to the last page, its empty lines begging for words.

He pulled up a chair, looked at Hope, and said, “If you think it’s time, then it’s time.” He touched her little nose with a playful, gentle poke, and said, “So, how does this story end? We have to find a way to get her out of the forest and back home.”

Hope sank a little in her chair and let out a sigh. “Yes, I
suppose
so.”

Martin handed her a pencil. “What? What did
you
have in mind?”

“She doesn’t want to leave the forest,” said Hope. “It’s her new home now. She wants to stay there . . . for affinity.” She paused, embarrassed she hadn’t gotten it quite right. “She wants to stay there for infinity. For . . . forever,” she said, giving her pencil a nervous twirl and glancing up to see her dad’s reaction.

“Hmmm,” Martin said, smoothing down his salt-and-pepper hair. He ached a little at the thought, but said, “Makes sense, actually, that she would want to stay.” Martin recalled his own visits to the Amazon. “The rainforest has a strong allure. And it has a way of changing people—giving them what they need.”

Hope smiled and handed Martin the pencil. “Here. Surprise me. Astonish me! But let her stay, Dad. Let her be a-lured. Let her end up where she belongs.” A dreamy stare came over her, and she said, “Or somewhere even better.”

Martin smiled. “I can’t do it on my own,” he said.

“Don’t patronize me, Daddy,” she said, laughing. There was a sweet sincerity in her voice. “Why would you need me?” she asked, as serious as a silly girl could be. “You can do anything.”

He smiled at Hope. “You wrote the first line, so you should write the last line, too.”

With the floor-to-ceiling rainforest still in full view, Martin clutched the book like a toddler latching onto his blanket—not sure why he needed it, but bound to it nonetheless. He felt torn. Still sipping his drink, he realized for the first time since his world came crashing down around him that he was at a crossroads, and it seemed he had two choices. Should he look to his beloved rainforest for guidance, or should he look to the book that he and Hope created together?

Right then, the lights flickered, Martin’s drink slipped almost out of his grip, and as he tried to recover it, he dropped the book. Its binding hit the carpet, and the book fell open on page thirty-one, the next to last page. One rectangular ice cube, light amber from the whiskey, sloshed over the side of the glass, plunged toward the floor, and landed on the page. When Martin went to retrieve the ice cube, his eyes became fixed on it, fixed on the words that could be seen through the clear piece of ice. The letters were slightly blurry, but they were bigger than the others on the page.

They were his words, but they were so unfamiliar, they seemed like strangers. So Martin read them. And read them. Then read them again, until he remembered the man who wrote them, and remembered what they meant.

Then, in a series of motions his body seemed to perform on its own, he retrieved a can of white paint and a paintbrush from the basement closet and returned to the room. He tackled the high-up emergents and the canopy first, and then swiped his brush, dripping with white paint, over each part of the understory, except for one. White brush strokes replaced the colorful swirling lines used to create the bustling life present in the trees, and when it was all gone, all erased, Martin looked at the darkest part of the mural. Deep greens, dark browns, and black shadows spilled onto the wall to make up the forest floor, where all life began. He knew it had to be done, so he dipped in the can, soaking the brush with as much white paint as it would hold.

He returned to the part he’d left still alive in the understory—the moon-flower bud—and was unsure if he could muster up the strength to erase it. He thought of Cooper, wanting to find the treasure box with his dad—his hero. At first, he thought of this word applying only to Cooper’s dad, but then a strange feeling came over him as he recalled his only daughter’s own words.

You can do anything.