Lone Star (13 page)

Blake laughed it off. He thinks she's a sugarplum and a candy cane and doesn't take anything she says or does seriously. I tried to counsel him. She wasn't joking, I said. She was utterly unmoved by my beautiful Franconia.

Getting from Boston to Riga is another good example of what I mean. We did have to wait a long time. So what? The seats weren't the most comfortable. So what? The food wasn't as good as Burger King. But so what, and what is? We are on a three-week joyride together. To Europe! That's amazing. During the Franconia snow-in, we were with our mom and Chloe's mom. You know, to keep an eye on things. Make sure we didn't get out of hand, and um, out of some things, and into other things. This time we're motherless, and the girls still aren't happy. Chloe keeps calling Riga her penance. I hope she is joking. And Hannah doesn't care about anything but Barcelona. She also thinks we're
going to swing over to Paris for a few days. If I didn't know that Hannah doesn't have a humorous bone in her body, I'd swear she was joking. To explain why we couldn't “swing over to Paris,” Blake tried to show her the map, to talk through the twenty-one days of our trip with her, every one accounted for, but she ignored him. To pay her back, Blake and I now ignore every mention of Paris. It's like we can't hear her. Every time she says Paris, we say, what? She says PARIS, and we say, what? She says Paris!!! We say, what?

I can't tell you how much that annoys her and amuses us.

It's warm in Riga, and the fields are pretty. Maine has more pine. Here, everywhere I look, the grass is uncut. The roads have no shoulders and no sidewalks. I'm sure when we get closer to the city, there will be sidewalks. Right? There have to be some sidewalks somewhere, no?

Hannah is an ice queen. I'd never say anything to my smitten brother. I know she's beautiful and all. But my God. She's sitting in a Latvian taxi, looking at her feet. She's not even looking out the window. I say, Hannah, look, Riga.

And she says, so? It's a city. I've seen cities before.

But you've never seen Riga, right?

The worst part is, she got Blake to sit in the middle because she said she wanted to sit next to a window, and now she's not even looking out of it! If I was Blake, I'd be pissed. Heck, I'm pissed already, and I'm not even Blake.

At least Chloe loves stuff. Once she stops being anxious and, granted that's easier for me to write than for her to do, but once she stops, she loves stuff. She loves going to the movies and to water parks, loves talking and fishing, and though I don't like fishing, I like that she likes it. She loves skating and plays a mean four-player hockey game. And she's a fast skater, too. Not as fast as Blake, but fast for a girl. I can buy her an ice cream or a burger, and she eats it with gusto. She likes driving, and she sings when she drives. She sings when she gardens, too. She never yells at other drivers. And she is so pretty. She doesn't
like people to think that, sometimes not even me. Says she doesn't want me to objectify her, or some shit like that. I still like looking at her, and when she lets me, I like touching her. She's got the silkiest hair of anybody I've ever met. And other soft nice things too. I wish she'd let me touch her more often. Sometimes it's hard to get her alone. Ever since Dad's truck broke, it's been a bitch to get together just the two of us. Blake and Hannah somehow manage, because on top of everything else, I'm always at varsity. Poor Blake. He's the most in-deep-trouble dude in Maine, because not only does he not know how unlucky he is, but he thinks he's lucky.

Things I'm most stoked about: 1. Seeing the Alps on the way to Spain. 2. Barcelona. 3. Being alone with Chloe. Miles of beaches, cheap hotels, food, drink, night. Maybe a room to ourselves. I can't wait. A last hurrah.

Hannah

I miss him. I'm a million miles away and yet all I can think about is him. Last time we saw each other he kept begging me to let him come visit me for a few days in Spain. I said, how could you possibly, I'm going with Blake. He didn't care. He said maybe I could get away for a few hours. Where would I tell Blake I'm going, I asked him. To a Barcelona bed with me, he said.

I want to be a good girlfriend for Blake here in Europe, give him these few weeks as happy memories. He's been good to me. And I've been good to him, of course.

Mason has never seen anything or been anywhere, so he's acting like Riga is da bomb. It's annoying. I didn't even know Riga was a capital city until Moody told me. I had barely heard of Latvia. This isn't where my future lies. I'm going to study to be a trilingual interpreter. I will wear beautiful clothes and go to state dinners in the capitals of the world. Not Riga. Other capitals. I will meet important diplomats, shake their hands and flirt with them. I will get fluent in Spanish and French. Where is
my French book? I want to study my subjunctive conjugations while we pass Riga by.

Tomorrow Chloe is going to the orphanage and the boys to the Old City. I'm tempted to send them all off without me, so that I can get over the jet lag, write, practice my Spanish and French, and my English elocution. I'll say I'm not feeling well. I'll allude to some womanly problems. That always works. I've actually been feeling off lately, that's not a lie.

Blake

Everything is amazing. Traveling was great. I want to travel all the time. I love planes, I'd never been on one, but how amazing! Packing was fun, carrying stuff, helping the girls, the ride to Boston; I wish we had time to spend a few days in Boston, looking around, walking around. When I grow up and have my own business and can take off work whenever I want, I'll go to Boston once a month for a long weekend, just to walk around and see the sights. Maybe Chloe can go to Harvard Law School and Mason and I can go visit her. The airport was awesome. I had four burgers because I knew I might not eat for a few hours. The check-in lady weighed my bags to see if they were over, but she should've weighed me, because I was over. Ha! Four burgers, two large fries, a large shake, and a Hershey chocolate pie. And a Coke. I was full up, man. She forgot to weigh me. Poor Chloe hardly ate at all, on account of being such a nervous flyer. Her bag was too heavy. She said it was because of my journal, but I told her it was because of her three pairs of shoes.

Hannah is the most seasoned traveler out of all of us, which isn't saying much, because we've never been anywhere, but she's been to Quebec once, and to Niagara Falls. Before her 'rents imploded, they took her and Jason to Chicago, and once to see Elvis's house in Memphis, because her crazy cheating dad is an Elvis freak. She took five years of Spanish and three years of
French, as she keeps reminding us. So she's an expert, she says, and doesn't need to be awake. I love how calm she is.

Poor Chloe! Mason wasn't sitting next to her and he was snoring to boot, and Hannah was meditating or whatever, but Chloe really needed to talk to somebody to calm down, and she had no one. She would've been less steamed if she could've talked to somebody. She just needed a few jokes and some banter about bullshit.

I'm so psyched about Riga. Who else but me is going to write about Riga in the competition? I'm going to season my story with the spice of Europe, baby, and I'm going to choose my words extra carefully, and they'll be dazzled. I'll have Chloe read it before I send it, so she'll be dazzled too, and she'll say, I didn't know you could write, Blake, and be all impressed. Look at how awesome your story is, she'll say.

Chloe

She loved the city in the distance. She loved the traffic on the roads (though she loved it less on the bridge they were failing to cross), and the vivid colors of the buildings. She even liked the unfamiliar sounds of Latvian: half-Slavic, half-guttural.

She was ashamed she was such a bad and unprepared traveler. Having no one to turn to, since neither Hannah nor Mason knew anything about Riga, Chloe turned to Blake, who walked arm in arm with his back journal, and it so happened that his journal on this particular Saturday was filled with tidbits about Latvia! He was infuriating. Why was he always the one looking things up, knowing things? What did Riga have to do with his story? “Everything,” he said. “The story keeps morphing, my dear Haiku. The chrysalis is becoming a butterfly. Did you know for example that Riga is a hotbed of spy activity? I'll use that detail in my book.”

“What do Latvian double agents have to do with the suitcase found in a dead woman's yard?”

“We don't know where the suitcase was found,” he declared. “Don't assume anything.”

“Your hero goes to Riga to find his answers?”

“Also, don't assume he's the hero. He may be the antihero. But yes, he goes to Riga. Just look at this place!”

She did. She was startled by the black church spires rising up outside the taxi windows, and she was startled by Blake. His cheerful immersion in the details of their travel and his commitment to his unformed opus were completely at odds with the Blake Chloe had grown up with. He was confounding. Hannah was no help. She accepted the new Blake the way she had accepted the old Blake, with neutral amusement.

Now, stuck in traffic on the bridge over the Daugava River, Chloe was forced to listen to Mr. Eager plan their itinerary like he was some kind of expert on all things Latvian.

“We'll go to the Central Market. We can't leave Riga without seeing it. And the Riga Museum. Also the Opera House. And, Chloe, I can't wait to try the Black Balsam—how about you? No, I'm not going to tell you what it is. You'll find out soon enough.” Leaning forward between the seats, he poked her in the arm. “There's also a bakery that's to die for, you know how much you like pastries, wait, I'm looking for the name of it . . .”

Hannah, of course, in her dry way, rained on all things, especially the bakery. “Well, it can't be any better than the bakery in Bangor, near UMaine,” she said. “They have the most divine cream puffs. I drool when I think about them, and I don't usually like sweets. And can the Riga Museum really compare to the Field Museum in Chicago? Same with the Opera House. It might be okay by Latvian standards, but compared to Carnegie Hall? And you know what I think? Beer is beer. Heineken, Bud, Black Balsam. It's just beer, Blake. Plus Chloe doesn't even like beer. Let's not talk about it like it's Dom Pérignon.”

Mason, looking and sounding annoyed, asked Hannah if she'd ever actually had Dom Pérignon.

“I'm just saying,” said Hannah.

“Didn't think so,” said Mason.

Blake didn't care. Sitting between Hannah and Mason in the back, he leafed through his notebook, his bedhead banging the roof of the cab. “Chloe,” he asked absentmindedly, “when did
you take Hannah to a Bangor bakery? You had cream puffs and didn't tell me? Were they really that good?”

Chloe was at a loss. On the radio, the Latvian music, full of balalaikas and cymbals, syncopated through the cab.

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't remember.” She stared at the outlines of the city through the window. “Moody's aunt lives so far outside Riga. When would we even get to a bakery?”

“Don't worry,” Blake said. “We'll find a way. This bakery is a must-see.”

Chloe was hungry, sleepy, slightly irritated by the long ride, the slow-moving traffic. “Well, it definitely can't be tomorrow,” she said. “We have to go to Liepaja.” The air whistled out of her balloon. Across the wide river, the Old City tempted her, its blue and pink walls, its green and yellow roofs, the colored stone, the purple domes, the pale light of the late afternoon northern sun. Riga seemed to be holding its breath before the raucous Saturday night ahead. Like Chloe was holding her breath before the next twenty days, before the rest of her life.

“We don't
all
have to go to Liepaja,” said Blake.

Hannah heartily agreed.

“Chloe, I'll go with you if you want,” Mason said from the backseat.

“I thought we would all go,” said Chloe. “Wasn't that the plan? To live through everything together, like always?”

“We don't have enough time.” That was Blake. “Hannah will go with you, Haiku. Mase has to come with me. We're going to the war museum, bro, the Powder Tower. Manly things that dainty girls aren't interested in. We're writing a story. This is the work part of our trip. While Chloe is in Liepaja looking for a boy, you and I have to find nefarious goings-on in Riga.”

“No!” said Hannah. “Why do I have to go to Liepaja? I'd rather go to Riga with you. But not to a bakery. What's the point of going to a bakery if Chloe's not coming with us? I'm not going to eat any of that cream-filled starch. I'll be five hundred pounds before the trip is over.” Spoken like a true size 2.

Chloe couldn't help herself. “If you don't like the pastries, Hannah,” she said, “then why were you wolfing down so many of them at the Bangor bakery?”

“She makes a good point, turtle, why?” said Blake.

“I was much thinner then.”

As if that answered anything.

“And what do you mean you're not coming with me?” Chloe knew she sounded petulant. “
Somebody
has to come with me.”

“Yeah, Hannah,” Blake said. “Chloe can't find a boy on her own.” He pulled Chloe's hair. “She needs help.”

“Leave me alone,” Chloe said.

“I'll come with you, Chloe,” said Mason.

“You can't, bro. What did I just say?”

They were finally out of the city, over the bright, freshly minted bridge. The countryside went from urban to rural in the space of two city blocks and a farm. Inside the cramped cab, their tired chatter faded.

“What's the name of the town we're going to again?”

“Carnikava,” Blake said. “Chloe, why do I have to tell you where
you're
going?”

“Not Carnikava,” the cabbie said. “Tsarnikava.”

Blake studied the map. “Says here Carnikava.”

“Tsarnikava!” the cabbie yelled.

After five tense minutes, Chloe spoke again. “How far is . . .
Ts
arnikava from here?”

“Twenty kilometers!” the cabbie said. “Maybe . . . twenty . . . FIVE!”

“Thank you!” she shouted back. She glanced back at Mason. His eyes were closed. He hated stridency, yelling. How did one yell thank you in Latvian? You'd think Chloe would've thought to pack a Latvian–English dictionary. Just to learn how to say thank you, or where is . . . ? or how much?

“
Paldies,
” said Blake.

Oh, great. So
he
knew how to say thank you. She retreated into herself, her gaze on the fields. How could her grandmother
have an aunt still living? It made no sense. “Chloe, did you say your family were bee farmers?” Blake asked.

“I never said that.”
Did
she say that? She couldn't remember.

“You did say that. I bet they have awesome honey. I can't wait.”

“Did you say
beer
farmer?” Mason deadpanned.

“Yes, that's right, bro.
Beer
farmer. You got it.” They started roughhousing over Hannah. Chloe felt better. Maybe they could leave the aunt's house after one night, stay in a Riga hostel? She thought this, but then she checked the meter. The price was ratcheting up like a champion swine for sale at the Fryeburg Fair.

47.

She swiveled her head to stare meaningfully at her three companions but none of them could convert the number into dollars, not even the brilliant Blake. Chloe had thought about nothing but the trip for months, but now she felt unprepared. The numbers on the wretched meter kept clicking upward. 51. Her anxiety level rose with each digit.

“What's the currency here?” she bleated.

“Latu,” the cabbie said. “One latu, almost two dollar. One, two. Easy.” He laughed, opening a big-lipped, inadequately dentured mouth.

Chloe spun around, eyes big. Blake, sitting in the middle, stared at the meter—55 now—and laughed.

“Next time, take train,” the cabbie said. “Without bags, easy. One latu to Riga. One latu.”

59. 60. 61. Yeah. Maybe next time they would take the train.

The trees got taller, pinier, the countryside flatter, the yards more florid. There were farms and peat bog, and swamps. There was a dusky mauve color to the long-limbed conifers. The rural roads were poorly marked. It took the cabbie awhile to find the address. For a few miles he drove down a long potholed avenue lined with birches. The small houses, mostly made of stone, were set deep inside the verdant foliage. They were neatly kept, had flowers and greenhouses. The landscape was nearly
indistinguishable from Maine. Except for the shadow of the rangy White Mountains and the abundance of lakes, Carnikava and Fryeburg seemed more closely related than Moody and Varda. Chloe hoped no one else would realize that. That they had traveled five thousand miles only to see their own backyards.

Chloe made some ironic remark about the beaten-down nature of the landscape, and Blake said, “Beaten down?” He sounded prickled for some reason, as if she'd offended his very own Latvia. “May I point out that the road here, while narrow, is paved? Can you say the same for the dirt path you live on?”

Did he say this to be funny or to make her ashamed?

“Why choose?” said Blake. “And please note the trash cans put out onto the road. Are you familiar with this custom? A garbage truck comes to your house and picks up your trash, so you don't have to haul your week-old garbage in your mother's Subaru to the landfill fifteen miles away.”

“All right, all right,” Chloe said, grudgingly sheepish.

She wasn't sure they were at the right house because there wasn't a number on the small stucco cottage painted in sky blue. But out on the road there was an onyx-haired woman, her arm around a skinny adolescent girl, both standing at attention near a peach tree and a wooden gate. The girl waved madly before the cab stopped. They climbed out of the narrow car onto the narrow road, grateful to stretch out and careful not to disturb the droopy branches of an apple tree draping over the hedge and fence. Mason and Blake retrieved their suitcases from the trunk and Chloe paid the fare (77 latu! Nearly $140. She tried not to think about it).

Cautiously they approached the old woman and her young charge, who were still waving but also eyeing the Americans' abundant luggage with skeptical wonder. Chloe thought that it couldn't be the right house. The strong, serious woman couldn't be Moody's aunt, couldn't be twenty years older than Moody, who was in her mideighties. This woman didn't look seventy.

“
Es esmu
Varda,” the woman said. “
Es esmu
Varda.” She hugged Chloe, muttering incomprehensible things. She banged
Chloe's chest and said “
Juˉsu vaˉrds ir
Chloya.” The young girl next to Varda, demure rather than desperate, despite her name—Carmen—didn't stop hugging either, except she was hugging Blake and Mason, two young men not remotely related to her. Perhaps she was more like a Carmen than
Chloya
had first allowed.

“I speak English,” the girl said with an accent. “I learn in school. I translate. Grandmother says she very happy you come. She waited for you long time. She want to know your friend names. And why you bring so much suitcase?”

“It's not so much,” said Chloe. “One suitcase each. We
are
traveling for three weeks.”

“Grandmother says too much suitcase,” the girl repeated.

Varda had hair blacker than any hair Chloe had ever seen. It was without a strand of gray. She had black eyes, a weathered, saddle-colored face. Her hands were gnarled claws, tanned, strong, veined, scarred with old injuries. Some of the fingers were crooked, as if they had been broken and then healed poorly. She wore a plain gray dress and old brown suede shoes that she obviously had just scrubbed, for they looked damp. She had dressed up to meet the Americans. The tween by her side, too. Carmen had put on a peasant dress, scraped half the mud off her moccasins, and braided back her long sandy hair. She stood enveloped in a sickly cloud of cheap cologne.

Varda said something to the girl, emphatic and loud.

“She says to tell you she not Mudita's aunt,” the young Carmen said. “She says you confused.”

The old woman pounded herself in the chest, and said what sounded like “Septic dank.”

“She says she sixty-nine,” said Carmen. “
SeÅ¡desmit devıˉtaˉ.”

Blake snickered. Chloe flailed out her arm to get him to stop the adolescent nonsense.

“How did you get this so very wrong, Haiku?” said Blake, leaning down from behind to whisper into her ear. “You'd think you'd remember the number sixty-nine.”

“Duuude, cut it out,” whispered Mason, shoving him. “You're not allowed to make that joke after eighteen.”

“You wrong, bro,” Blake said. “'Cause I just did.”

Carmen, having taken a shine to Mason, oozed over and attached herself to his side. “How do you like Latvia? How long will you stay? Why so little? Three days not enough. We have much to show you. There is summer festival in Jurmala this week. You can't leave without seeing Jurmala. Where are you going after? Why Poland? Poland ugly. Where else? Vilnius? No. Riga much better. Latvia beautiful. We have beaches. Do you want to go swimming? Jurmala festival right on water.” Carmen said this all rapid-fire while threading her hands around Mason's polite arm. How did he draw them in like this, even on the other side of the world, like bears to honey? Even the Latvian bears couldn't keep their grubby paws off him. Remembering the Fryeburg Academy cheer squad wiped the benevolent smile off Chloe's perspiring face.