Kepler’s Dream (20 page)

“Well, no.” Ignacio frowned and shook his head. “That's not how it happened.”

“It isn't?”

“No, no.” He waved a hand, as if to brush away the idea. “Walt was
asleep
when the whole thing started.”

Ignacio looked around, as if wondering whether he should really go on. Miguel gave a silent nod.

“Our dads were out on the bank in the early, early morning,
drinking coffee they'd brewed on the campfire. Your grandpa—he wasn't a grandpa then, of course, he was just Dr. Mack, Walt's dad—was gazing up at the sky, like he did. It was probably four or five in the morning. You know how sometimes the best time to fish is before it's light out.”

“‘Catch the fish while they're still dreaming,'” I said, quoting my dad. “Before they're all the way awake.”

Ignacio gave a sideways smile. “That's right. When any normal person is asleep in their bed, that's when you get fishermen out on the water, trying to fool the fish into swallowing a hook.” Ignacio may have been smiling, but somehow it was the sadness lines that lit up on his face. “So Dr. Mack and Papí were getting ready to do some early a.m. fishing. I wanted to get Walt up, too—I figured we could see if our dads would let us join 'em. Dr. Mack was tilting his head back and talking about something in the night sky, as usual. Then he heard Walter's voice.”

“Calling him?”

“No, not calling. Mumbling, talking in his sleep, I don't know what. Dr. Mack turned toward the sound and then he—stumbled over something in the darkness. And fell, backwards.”

“Into the water?” I whispered.

“Into the water, over some rocks that slipped from under him. And then he got turned around, with it being so dark, so instead of climbing back toward the shore he went deeper, and the current was so strong it swept him in.”

Ignacio took a deep breath. “And our
papí,
he dove right in after him and tried to pull him out. I was out on the bank, too, by
then. I'd gotten out of my sleeping bag and was about to jump in, but my
papí
yelled at me to stay on shore, because the current was strong, and the water deeper than they'd realized—”

I knew how the story ended.

“And the Rio Grande,” Miguel finished, “took both men.”

The faces all around the table were somber. Beers were sipped. Rosie and I stared at the remains of rice and beans on our plates.

But meanwhile, an idea formed in my mind. “So does that mean the accident wasn't actually my dad's fault?”

“Your dad's? No, no.” Ignacio shook his head, like a dog clearing its ears. “Walt was barely even awake yet. By the time he really woke up and stood next to me, it was over. Our dads were gone.”

The creek beds around Ignacio's eyes were grooved deep with the old grief.

“Then why,” I asked in a quiet voice, though I didn't know who I was even asking, “does my grandmother blame my dad?”

Joan reached across the table and held my hand. “It's like I told you once, hon,” she said. “Everyone in a family has a different story about what's gone on.”

“But she wasn't even there!” I protested.

“You're right,” Joan said. “Who knows how she got that idea in her head? Maybe it was easier for her to think it was someone else's fault.”

“Also,” Ignacio added, “I think Walt did feel somehow responsible. Like he'd somehow made his dad fall, even though he didn't. He was a kid, we both were—just about the same age as
you girls. He felt like if somehow he had acted different, or not been there at all, we might have had a different outcome.”

“Plus, he didn't want his mom coming after Ignacio,” Miguel said. “He didn't want any trouble of that kind.”

“That's true, too.” Ignacio looked at Miguel, and you could see years and stories move silently between the brothers. “The rest of our family hit the road pretty soon after that.”

“And the road Ignacio took,” Miguel said, trying to lighten the mood, I think, “turned out to be a lo-o-o-ng one.”

Walter too, I thought: Spokane wasn't exactly around the corner. Neither was California.

It seemed like the GM had been so upset about Edward dying that she had convinced herself that his death was my dad's fault. That had to be one huge reason she had been a dragon to him ever since. A few other things came to my mind: the ashes in the Librerery fireplace, and the fighting phone call I had overheard, and a
Hamlet
book reappearing on the shelf. The pieces started to arrange themselves into an order that made sense.

“I know who took Kepler's
Dream
,” I announced suddenly. A table full of people turned to me: Adela, Miguel, Ignacio, Rosie and Joan. In my mind had opened a clear space, full of light. Right at its center there was an image—of a penciled boy. “I have a feeling,” I said, “that it was my dad.”

Then, as if my words had been some kind of spell, conjuring him up from the restaurant's spicy air of pepper and pork and tortillas—there he was. Walking toward us.

My dad.

TEN

“B
e
LL
e
, OLD GI
r
L, HOW'
re
YO
u
DO
in
G?”

My dad enclosed me in a monster hug. There were a lot of things that Walter Mackenzie was clueless about, but the guy did know how to give you a good hug. He was tall, big and brown bearded, and he wrapped his arms around you like a bear, making you feel safe and warm and only slightly suffocated. I hadn't had anyone much to hug that whole time, except Lou, who tended to squirm out of my hands after a quick slobbery kiss. The GM was a hand shaker, an eyebrow raiser—not a hugger.

So, though part of me was wondering why he hadn't
told
me he was coming there, finally, so I'd have known—or was that what all that CrxxxxZZxxx was about?—on the other hand: what can I say? I was glad to see him. He was still my dad.

After hugging me, he turned and shook Adela's hand, gave a big old back slap to Miguel—“Casa de Estrellas, here I am, like you told me to be, Migo,” then leaned in and said to Ignacio, “Nacio,
Yo todavía no puedo creer que sea usted, hermano.
” My dad tried an awkward, I'm-not-so-good-with-kids wave to Rosie
and introduced himself to Joan, who said in her honeyed voice, “I'm so glad to meet you, finally, Walter, I've heard so much about you,” to which my dad replied, “Yeah, well, I hope not too much of it was from my mother.” Everyone laughed.

It was kind of like a reunion. The grown-ups celebrated with more beers, and being kids, Rosie and I celebrated with sugar—doughnutty churros, hot and delicious. My dad settled down at the table with us, and I spent a moment just looking at him: that cute penciled face in the Haitian Room, all bearded and grown up.

“First things first,” Dad said to me. “Ella, your mother sends her love.”

“My
mother
?” This was bizarre. Since when was he a messenger for my mom?

“Well, yes,” he answered. “You know, I've visited Amy in the hospital in Seattle when I could.”

No, I hadn't known. Why did my dad always think I'd know everything if he never told me anything? And who could have guessed my dad would go see my mom? In my family, the words
mother
and
father
were never part of the same sentence.

“So. How is she doing?” My throat stuck on the question. I remembered her microscopic voice on the phone.

“Well, it's pretty brutal, what they do to people in these treatments.” He shook his head. “They've put Amy through the wringer. But”—he looked me in the eye—“I think the disease is losing. It's running out of steam. Your mom's a tough opponent.”

My heart skipped a beat. Everything else left my mind for a second except one loud, impossible hope.
Maybe she'll be OK
.

My business partner, though, was not distracted from the main question. “Mr. Mackenzie,” she began, but when he said, “Walt, please, call me
Walt,
young lady,” Rosie corrected herself. Shyly. “Um, Walt, excuse me, but I have to ask you: is Ella right? Did you take Kepler's
Dream
?”

I was impressed by Rosie's focus on the question of the stolen goods. Ms. Nelson had told us that focus was going to be important in middle school. Rosie would do fine.

“That (expletive deleted) book. Well, I didn't
take
it, exactly.” My dad had the
it's not my fault
look I'd seen on him often enough before. He cleared his throat and turned to me. “Listen, Belle. None of this worked out quite how I'd planned.”

Not a good start. This was what my dad had been saying to me practically since I was born. By now I could do a pretty good raised eyebrow, Von Stern style, so I gave it to him.

“My God, stop!” he spluttered. “You look just like Mother!” He raised his hands, as if in surrender. “All right, all right. Let's see. Where to begin exactly? So—I had been figuring out a time to come visit …”

“What happened,” Miguel chipped in, “without your dad knowing it, was—”

My dad shook his head. “No, no, Migo—thanks, but I better do this. I should explain.” He paused. The problem was, my dad wasn't really cut out for explaining himself. I guess when you spend all day fishing, you don't usually have to justify what you do. It's not like the fish are going to bug you about it. “Here's the story. There was a river expedition down the Colorado, and
I got a call from some old friends of mine who needed my help. Their regular guy broke his ankle and had to quit. It was around the time I had thought about coming here, to Albujerk—
Albuquerque
—to find out how you were doing, but these guys have helped me out in the past, so I said OK. I figured I could at least route the flight through here and see you, Belle, before I went to Colorado.”

So he did think about me sometimes! I was flattered.

“But when I called Mother about coming in that night, she was not—
ahem!
—especially welcoming. She told me it would be”—he did a fake laugh—“let's see, what was that terrific word,
inconvenient
for me to come visit just then. Because she didn't have any kind of room ready for me, Dahling Christopher was ensconced in the Haitian cave, and you were in the John Hancock quarters.” I liked that name, from the signatures on the wall in my room, I guess he meant. I'd have to add that to my house plan. “And all around the premises, by her account, were hardworking elves cataloging her (expletive deleted) collection of books … Sorry, girls.” The apology was more for Rosie's sake. I was used to my dad and his expletives. “And so, short of stashing me up in the cottonwoods with the peacocks, she didn't see how she could fit me in.”

“Oh, Violet.” Joan shook her head. “You are naughty.”

The Aguilars looked baffled, as if this story concerned a family of Martians.

“Yes. Mother and I had what you might call a
discussion
about
it. The idea of being turned away because of Abercrombie, of all (expletive deleted) people …”

“The man is hard to like,” Joan agreed.

“Hard to like? The guy's an—” My dad managed to stop himself, for once. “You know, my father didn't trust him. And then after he died, Dahling Christopher became very …
friendly
with Mother. He even proposed to her.”

“What?” Joan and I squawked together. The idea was horrifying. Our Honored Pest would have been my … my step-Abercrombie!

“Thank God she had the sense to say no.” He snorted. “I thought that would be the last we'd hear of him, that reptile, and he'd slither back down into his hole. Ashamed to have thought of himself any kind of equal to Edward Mackenzie. But no
—
he
persisted
. He tried to win her affections by giving her special book deals. He even sold her that volume she loves better than life itself. Kepler's
Dream
, I mean. So when I realized
he
of all people was the reason my own mother couldn't take me in—”

“You were a little annoyed,” Joan suggested.

“Right. I was a little annoyed.” He took a breath. “And I thought, what is she going to do if I show up, lock the (expletive deleted) doors?” Rosie's mom, Adela, kept wrinkling her nose, as if my dad's swearing were giving off an evil smell. He didn't notice. He was on a roll now, so he just barreled on, explaining that he got on his flight but it was delayed several hours, and he'd arrived late at night. He didn't want to wake everyone up, but he wasn't going
to have made this whole Albujerk stopover just to sleep in some soulless Motel 6 either, as he put it. So, thinking what the
heck
? (he was really pleased with himself for a moment for cleaning up his speech), he decided to bed down in the
Librerery
for one night, in his sleeping bag. If it was good enough for Kepler and for Shakespeare, it was good enough for Walt Mackenzie. And then he'd see me first thing in the morning—Ella finally makes an appearance in the story, even if only as a passing reference!—with or without the Old Dragon's approval. He said he still had a set of keys, and the security code to the place—0-7-0-7—well, those four numbers were burned in his mind.