The Understory (35 page)

Hans and Story stared at the wall in front of them, amazed at each paper layer of the Amazon, and they both were mesmerized by the sloth’s paper tail, clinging to a branch, hanging on indefinitely. They both looked up to the tip-top of the giant kapok tree, and then moved their eyes downward, ending with Cooper and the treasure box sitting at the base of the tree.

And just as Martin had described in the book, the treasure box was nestled among roots—not exactly buttress roots, but another kind. Sitting snug in the cardboard box that had come from deep inside the closet, the treasure box sat among framed family trees with centuries of Payne lineage—roots David Payne had been compiling for Cooper. It had been a project that David loved, and was proud of, but when fate interrupted, it was ultimately a project that had been relocated to the bowels of the closet.

As Cooper’s small hands slid back and forth, gliding over the treasure box, morning announced itself, sending one giant shaft of light through the wooden office blinds. With the sunlight hitting it just so, the treasure box attained an ethereal glow, and the kapok tree carved into its lid looked just like the giant construction paper kapok tree that towered above it.

In Cooper’s interpretation of an Amazonian kapok tree, its many paper branches grew in horizontal tiers, in keeping with Mayan tradition—Mayans believed the souls of the dead climb up the stairway of branches, up into heaven.

Story walked closer to Cooper. When she leaned over the box and caressed the woody-vine lianas, which Hans had braided into an ornate handle, a shiver shot through her body, and she said a secret thank-you to whatever had helped recreate what they all so desperately needed. They were not in the rainforest. It didn’t smell like the rainforest. It didn’t sound like the rainforest. But the way the light came in the window, touching only things it wanted to be seen—the treasure box, the paper forest, Sonny’s cage—cast an otherworldliness over the entire room. They stood now not on hardwood floors in an office, but on the forest floor with a canopy above, and possibility lurked in the shadows.

The beauty of the scene swept over Story. Cooper still believed, and Story alone knew what small miracle awaited them. For the first time in twenty-five years, Story Easton shed a tear—two, in fact. Without warning, she felt the drops escape from her eyes and trickle down both cheeks until they met on her chin and converged. As they combined, gaining momentum, the joined droplet fell, and she knew a piece of her would forever mark the sacred ground. She then said something like a prayer, in hopes that the treasure she’d put in it one day before would be enough.

Story crouched down next to Cooper, who said in his softest, most hopeful voice, “I knew he was right. I knew I would find it. Somehow.” He inspected the box for authenticity. He let his small fingers glide over the carved lid, and then he gripped the handle with authority, and whispered, “The vines are braided . . . just like the book said.” He turned around, and said to Claire, “There’s only one, right, Mom?”

She nodded. “Only one.” Claire took another breath, but not a deep one, because the magic trick was far from over. As Cooper lifted the lid in slow increments, Hans took Story’s hand in his. They watched as the lid rose and, finally, rested on its hinge.

Cooper stared into the open treasure box. He cocked his head to the side, and tried to figure out what he was looking at. When he lifted it out of the box, everyone except Story was puzzled.

Cooper held in his hands a small, portable DVD player with a fold-out screen, and when he figured out what it was, he turned back to Claire with a restrained, but disappointed, look. Claire crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping the big, magical finale wasn’t
The Jungle Book
.

Then Cooper looked to Sonny. They all waited for Cooper to say something, or Sonny to say something, but both boy and bird just stared at each other. The yellow and orange tuft of feathers on Sonny’s head vibrated a bit, and soon Cooper began to smile, and he let out a laugh, as if the two of them had had some sort of discussion—not a mimicry session, but a real conversation where questions are asked and answered. And although it seemed weird to think a bird could look happy, he did look different, at least to Story, as if he’d been flying for thousands of miles and finally reached his destination.

It had been just last night when Story realized what she needed to put in the magic treasure box—not on her own, of course, but with the help of a simple word which had, until then, always failed her. “Abracadabra,” she’d said with hope but not much confidence. She sat in her living room after she’d packed, looking for something, anything, that could pass as magic. And as her gaze darted around the room—book,
no
, candle,
no
, bottle of wine,
no
,
no
,
no
—she’d glanced on the shelf below the TV, fixating on the magic right in front of her.

“Maybe you should push play, Coop,” Story said.

Cooper lifted the player out of the box, sat down cross-legged, and let his weight settle onto the floor. He took a deep breath, pushed the button, and waited. After a few seconds, an image appeared on the screen, and when it did, Claire brought her hands up to her mouth, and Cooper laid his gentle hand, spread wide over the familiar face, and said, “Dad.”

W
hen Cooper removed his hand from the screen, there sat David “Sonny” Payne, smiling and relaxed, his olive skin tan on-screen. He sat at his office desk, in the very office they were all in now, taping a late-night message that neither Claire nor Cooper knew existed.

“I just came from upstairs, watching you sleep,” said David, repeating the words Story had already heard. As Cooper watched, rapt, his dad smiled and said, “So I figure I’ll give you my best advice about life, while it’s still fresh in my brain.”

Then he stared straight into the camera, lost his smile, and said in a deep, raspy voice, “Cooper,
I
am your Faaaather.” And then he put his arm in the air, hiding his hand inside his sleeve like a Vader-inspired amputee.

Claire and Cooper smiled.

“Sorry. Seriously. You’ll probably never see this, Coop, but your school project got me in a . . . chatty mood.” He threw his hands up and said, “And I figured, what the hell, tell the kid what he needs to know, just in case. Let’s start with some quotes near and dear to my heart. Here it goes. ‘Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.’”

Claire laughed, tears in her eyes.

“‘Always forgive your enemies—nothing annoys them so much.’” He folded his hands and placed them on his desk. “Let’s see, oh, yeah, ‘You can observe a lot by watching.’ That means, shut up every once in a while.” Then he pointed his finger at the camera, and said, “Don’t you dare turn this off yet,” then added, ‘Cheer up, the worst is yet to come.’” He raised his eyebrows and said, “Thank Mr. Twain for that one.”

He looked up, and to the left, borrowing from his memories. “Okay, before you’re eighteen, see
This Is Spinal Tap
. Read
To Kill a Mockingbird
and pretend your dear old dad is as cool as Atticus Finch. Own at least two Beatles albums and know at least five Bob Dylan lyrics. By heart.” He tapped his fingers on his desk. “Oh,” he said, putting his finger up again. “Three important things you should learn how to say, and say a lot . . . to women. One, ‘You’re right.’ Two, ‘I’m sorry.’ Three, ‘It’ll never happen again.’ Hmmm . . .” he said. “This is harder than I thought. Um . . . if you start something, finish it. And . . . your word should be gold, but where the other guy’s concerned, get it in writing.”

He then folded his arms and said, “Learn to set up a hammock, hammer a nail, work the grill, and change a tire. Ask me—I’ll teach you. Let’s see, always, always, keep your eye on the ball.” He smiled. “Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, they’re real, and . . .”—he said this with passion—“. . . they don’t stop coming, they’re just in disguise. And magic does exist,” he said, laughing. “Just look at me . . . here . . . talkin’ to you . . . there.”

After a sigh, he said, “Don’t ever get a tattoo. You don’t need the story.
You
are the story,” he said, starting to get serious. “Ah, love. At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet. And so will you,” he said, blushing a little and laughing. “God, the first time I laid eyes on your mother, I turned into T. S. fucking Eliot.” He grimaced. “Oh, and don’t swear . . . It’s not becoming. By the way, don’t get married because you want to get married. Get married because you want to marry
her
. And don’t worry about not knowing . . . When all you want is for her to be happy, you’ll know.”

Claire looked into David’s eyes. She almost felt as if he looked back.

Cooper stared at the screen, hanging on every word. “Look,” said David, “I know you think I’m a hero, but I have a secret for you. Heroes are only heroes because someone makes them
feel
like one. And in case you ever want to know what I love about you . . .” He paused, breathed in, then out, and blinked three times. “I love the way you didn’t give up when you were learning to ride without your training wheels.” He continued with a strong, proud smile. “I love the way your hair looks all messy when you wake up. I love the way your chest moves up and down when you sleep. I love how you gave your coat to that boy who needed one at the park.”

Unable to contain it, his smile grew wider with every word. “I love how you want to wear your Halloween costume all year long. I love how you always kiss Mommy back, even when you’re embarrassed. I love that you want to know all the great things that have happened to me in my lifetime. But I’ll save you some time, kiddo.” And with this, he stared into the camera and pointed with such feeling, it looked as if his finger might come through the screen and touch Cooper in the flesh. “
You
are the greatest thing that ever happened to me.”

And then he gave his head a slight shake and squinted a bit. “And just in case you ever wonder, I know you love me.”

Cooper finally took a deep breath, and this time, when he let it out, it seemed to float out the window, away with the breeze. The wall-forest itself seemed to be listening to David now, all the paper animals quiet and attentive.

“Don’t look back,” David Payne said, “unless it makes you smile. No regrets. Only forward.” He looked into the camera, through the camera, with a mysterious smile. “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

Then the screen turned to static and David Payne disappeared. Again.

T
he room was filled with broken stories, rewritten by fate, and a new sun shined over them all. Story took in the scene around her, and when she stopped for a moment to absorb the sight of the treasure box one last time, she noticed something lying on the ground near it. Sticking out from underneath one of the framed family trees that had toppled over the box’s side in the excitement was a tiny green umbrella.

A much smaller version of Cooper’s big umbrella, it, too, was green with a wood handle, but it wasn’t made for rain. Designed for happier times, this little cocktail umbrella with its toothpick stem and paper-green top must have fallen out of the box, perhaps a remnant from a party, perhaps a souvenir from someone’s past.

Perhaps,
Story thought, but then she stopped thinking of the possibilities. They were endless. Besides, really, there was only one answer to the question of why, and Cooper had already answered it.
It was an unexpected gift.

Story Easton closed her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine any award or trophy more satisfying than how she felt right then, but the sound of a doorbell interrupted her.

Claire asked Story to get the door while she sat with Cooper, digesting what had just happened. When Story opened the door, in front of her stood Martin Baxter, staring at his barely recognizable book, still smoldering on the sidewalk. “Who’s the Nazi?”