Beneath the Night Tree (8 page)

“What’s going on?” she asked, looking between the two of us as if we were keeping something important from her. Which we were.

“Nothing,” I lied.

Simon raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Fine,” I muttered between clenched teeth. “There’s something going on. But I don’t want to talk about it here.”

“Let’s go home.” Grandma linked her arm through mine and turned to Simon. “You go find Daniel and bring him to the car. Julia and I will be waiting.”

She led me out of the sanctuary and through the throng of people crowding the fellowship hall. The scent of bad coffee and a dozen disharmonious perfumes mingled in an offense of unbearable odor. I felt choked, trapped. Almost desperate in my desire for fresh air.

“You going to be all right, honey?”

I couldn’t meet Grandma’s worried gaze. “I don’t know,” I whispered.

* * *

By the time we got home, even Daniel knew there was something big going on. He had sensed my anxiety in church, but now that Grandma and Simon were also tight-lipped and tense, Daniel looked downright solemn. He held my hand on the way upstairs and even allowed me to help him out of his Sunday clothes as if he were still a very little boy instead of an almost kindergartner.

“Hey,” I said as I unbuttoned his starched, white shirt, “don’t look so serious.”

Daniel ignored me and eased his arms out of his short sleeves, raising his hands obediently as I lifted a T-shirt over his head. It was on in one smooth movement, and I took advantage of his uncharacteristic compliance by dropping a kiss on the tips of his gelled hair. He let me do it without complaint.

I assumed my comment was already forgotten, but as I turned to head back to my own room and slip out of my sundress, he asked, “What’s
serious
?”

Mothers were supposed to be pros at answering those sorts of questions, but I was terrible at fielding them. I never knew what to say, how to make the complexities of a perplexing world make sense to my five-year-old. “Ummm . . .” I faltered. “I guess
serious
means ‘grave,’ ‘somber,’ ‘stern.’”

Daniel gave me a weird look.

“It means ‘not happy,’” I said, trying again. “It means you look like you’re thinking about something very important and it’s making you sad.”

“I’m not thinking about anything important,” Daniel assured me. A smile zipped across his earnest face and then just as quickly disappeared. His brows furrowed; his mouth formed a grim line. “I look like Simon. See?”

Torn between laughter and tears, I bit my lip and pulled Daniel close. He endured my embrace for a moment before backing away to grab a handful of Matchbox cars from the little desk beneath his window. I stood in the doorway and watched him cram the detailed trucks and sports coupes in the pockets of his shorts. He took toys with him wherever he went, as if he had already learned at such a young age that you should never be caught unprepared.

What else had my son discovered about life? That Simon was serious? That there isn’t a daddy for every family? That Mommy clutched at things, trying to hold people close so they wouldn’t slip through her fingers?

I didn’t want Daniel to absorb all the junk, all the dysfunction and baggage that the rest of us seemed doomed to inherit. But how could I stop that from happening? Especially now, as I was about to drop a bomb on my unsuspecting family?

When I finally descended the steps, clad in a pair of cargo shorts and another of my cheapo T-shirts, I found Grandma in the kitchen with a picnic basket on the table.

“Grab a knife,” she said, indicating the bag of raisin buns on the counter. “They need to be cut and buttered.”

There was a Tupperware container in front of her, and she was peeling carrots with a paring knife, quartering them, and dropping them inside. I peeked into the basket and spied a bunch of freshly washed grapes, a sleeve of Simon’s favorite wheat crackers, and the last of the cupcakes we had made a few days ago.

“We’re going on a picnic,” Grandma told me unnecessarily. “I think it would do us all good to get out of the house.”

I nodded and took a bread knife from the butcher block. The bakery put eight buns in a package and I sliced them all, spreading both sides with real butter and putting a square of cheddar cheese in the middle. By the time we got wherever we were going, the sandwiches would be the tiniest bit warm, the cheese soft, the butter on the verge of melting. I could close my eyes and imagine how they would taste. It reminded me of my childhood.

“Where’re we going?” Simon asked, coming into the kitchen and inspecting the contents of the picnic basket.

“The Black Hills, the Rocky Mountains, the beach . . . ,” I muttered, wishing that one of those dream destinations was exactly where we were headed.

“Somewhere a little closer to home.” Grandma popped the plastic top on her container of carrots and deposited it in the basket beside the grapes.

“Thought so.” Simon gave me what I considered a dirty look.

“Ooh! A picnic!” Daniel thundered into the kitchen and climbed on a chair so he could examine the provisions for our spontaneous outing. “Can I have a cupcake now?”

“No,” I exclaimed at the exact moment that Grandma said, “No.”

She caught my eye and a knowing smile passed between us. It was nice to be reminded that we were a team, no matter how unconventional.

“I think we’re ready to go,” Grandma announced, taking the bag of buns from my outstretched hand and adding it to the growing pile of food. She closed the picnic basket and handed it to Simon. “We need a strong man to do the honors. Julia, if you’d grab some bottles of water from the fridge, I believe we’re set.”

“A picnic, a picnic!” Daniel shouted as we trailed out of the house single file. He took the lead, careening over the lawn toward the car, but when he threw open the door to the backseat and started to hop inside, Grandma stopped him.

“We’re not taking the car, sweetie!”

“But we can’t walk to the park!”

“We’re not going to the park.”

“Where are we going?” He seemed completely mystified, but Grandma just marched past him wearing a secret smile.

“Come on,” I said, motioning for him to come. “Might as well follow the lady.”

Grandma led us to the east edge of our property, past the old chicken coop, the stable that had once held half a dozen horses, and up the hill where a sagging barn stood like a proud, elderly gentleman still clinging to his dignity. I had spent hours playing in the hayloft when I was a kid, but now the outbuildings were all in a sad state of disrepair. I felt bad banning the boys from the rotting ladders, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of one of them falling through the decaying floor.

“Tell me about when you were little,” Daniel asked as we approached the barn.

There was only one story that he wanted to hear, and though I regretted ever voicing my ridiculous—and dangerous—childhood tale, I repeated it in an effort to calm my nerves.

“When I was a girl,” I began, “I wanted to be a tightrope walker.”

“In the circus,” he cut in.

I shrugged. “In the circus.” In reality, I don’t know if I ever wanted to run away with the circus; I was merely addicted to the rush of doing the one thing my dad prohibited me from doing. But Daniel loved to embellish, so I let him. I imagined he pictured me in sequins and feathers, though I never wore anything beyond my uniform of faded denim and hand-me-down shirts. “So I wanted to be a tightrope walker, and Grandpa’s barn had the perfect place for me to practice.”

“A tightrope?”

“Nope, a beam. A great, big wooden beam that stretched from the north end of the barn to the south.”

“But there was hay beneath it.”

“There was hay beneath part of it,” I agreed. “But at the south end of the barn, the hayloft opened up over the animal stalls.”

“But you didn’t walk there.”

“I did,” I said, giving his ear a little tweak.

“You were naughty,” Daniel laughed.

“I was adventurous.”

“You were naughty,” Grandma agreed with Daniel and gave me a stern look. Addressing my son, she said, “Your mother should have never done such a foolish thing.”

“Yeah, ’cause she could have fallen and hit her head and
died
.”

It was a warning that I had used just once when Daniel climbed on the counter to swipe a cookie from the cookie jar. I was petrified of what the hard floor would do to his sweet, soft head, and I shouted the first thing that came to my mind. Daniel never forgot it. Now, if anyone did anything even remotely unsafe, they were surely going to fall and hit their head and
die
.

The first chuckle came from Simon, a wet burst of laughter that told me he had been holding in just such a giggle for a long time. Then Grandma was laughing and finally Daniel and I joined in, though Daniel asked, “What are we laughing at?”

“Nothing, honey.”

“You know,” Grandma said, “I could tell you lots of other stories about when your mom was little. There was one winter that Grandpa got a new batch of chicks, and your mom—”

“Thought they were cute,” I burst out, placing a warning hand on Grandma’s arm. She grinned at me but let it drop.

We walked past the barn to the very peak of the sloping hill that stood sentinel over the length of our property. At the top, Grandma stopped in the shade of a gnarled oak tree and spread out the blanket she had snagged when we passed through the mudroom. From the square boundary of our makeshift table, we could see to the farthest edge of the DeSmit farm. Eighty acres spread before us, rising and falling as if the breath of God swept over the ocean of green. Grandma rented out the land, and the man who farmed it had planted soybeans just beyond the barn and corn in the second parcel. I was grateful that there were no tall plants to block our view. On a bright, clear day like this, we could practically count the leaves on the trees that bordered the creek between sections.

“Who needs the park when we’ve got a vista like this?” Grandma asked.

We ate quietly, with a certain attentive diligence as if we were spellbound by the world around us. But my thoughts weren’t nearly so peaceful, and when Grandma finally broke out the cupcakes and announced, “I think it’s time to talk,” I startled as if I had been deep in a trance.

“Daniel—” Grandma wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin—“why don’t you go explore behind the barn? It’s cool and shady there, and when your mother was little, she could always find frogs in the tall grass.”

“Frogs?” He stuffed the last of his cupcake in his mouth and took off at a sprint.

“Thank you,” I said, grateful that Grandma didn’t see this as a family affair. “I’m not ready to tell him yet. Simon, I think you should leave too.”

“But I already know.”

“Know what?” Grandma murmured.

“That she’s moving to Iowa City,” Simon muttered, gazing at the uneaten cupcake in his hand.

Grandma didn’t say anything, but I could see the shock in the downward slant of her mouth.

“Simon,” I warned. “That’s not true. And this isn’t your story to tell.”

His head drooped lower.

“No one is moving to Iowa City,” I said, trying to placate both of them. “Michael asked me to come with him . . .” I caught myself and added, “And Simon and Daniel, too, but I said no. Well, I haven’t said no yet, but I haven’t said yes. And I’m not going to.”

Grandma nodded slowly. “Did he . . . propose?”

It hurt so much to say the word, I found that the only thing I could do was shake my head. “One of his professors is on leave, and Michael asked him if I could move into his house for a couple of months. It would be a . . . trial.”

“A trial? A trial of what, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered, overwhelmed by how hurt I was that his offer hadn’t been one of marriage. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? I mean, he should know, right? If he wants to be with me—with us—or not.”

I expected to feel Grandma’s arms around me, but when she didn’t move to comfort me in any way, I looked up to find her cool and unemotional. “I don’t know, Julia,” she said carefully. “I don’t think it’s such a terrible idea. It might be good for you to see if this is what you really want. Michael is the only person you’ve dated since Daniel was born. What if you spend more time together and realize that it isn’t meant to be? What if God has something else in store?”

Her words stunned me. Something else in store? For me? Who was she kidding? “I love Michael,” I said quietly.

“Then you have to go.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Grandma interrupted. “Have you heard of the phrase ‘leave and cleave’? What about, ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh’?”

“We’re hardly one flesh,” I muttered.

“Maybe you will be. Either way, I don’t think this—” she spread her arm wide to encompass the whole of our land—“is all God has planned for you, Julia. It might be time to dream bigger than our little farm.”

This wasn’t the way I had hoped this conversation would go. I thought Grandma would be surprised, maybe a little saddened, and then ultimately supportive. I didn’t need her second-guessing my decision or the motives behind it.

“I can’t leave,” I said, staring at my empty hands as if the answers that were supposed to be hidden inside had slipped through my fingers.

“Why not?”

Because of you. Because Simon doesn’t want to go. Because this is the only home I’ve ever known. . . .

We didn’t say anything for a long time. Unspoken words drifted between us like the debris of a phantom conversation, one that didn’t go quite according to plan. Simon picked at his cupcake, Grandma gazed off over the fields, and I stole glances at both of them, loving them in silence and wishing I could say all the things that I felt. When Daniel finally came back, a fat, green and brown frog squeezed in the death grip of his dirty palm, Grandma sighed and reached to pat my knee.

“We have much to think about,” she said, mustering up a smile for Daniel as he approached. “Lots of decisions to make.”

She didn’t know the half of it.