Eternal Spring A Young Adult Short Story Collection (9 page)

What Carmen had really done was strip the vibrancy from Ty’s
life: the colors, smells, cacophony of sounds, and, most importantly, the rich
familial relationships. In
La Villita
, he was an average seventeen-year-old boy surrounded by
su comunidad
;
in Wilmette, he was treated like a two-dimensional Latino Versace model. But
even as they appreciated his good looks they still managed to make him feel
like a minimum wage pool boy. Which reminded him why he was sitting by the pond
trying to shake of his foul mood in the first place—because he’d been
mistaken for landscaping staff and ordered to sweep grass clippings up from the
communal sidewalk. Which he’d done, much to his humiliation and the confusion
of the actual grounds crew. But it was easier than trying to explain. He
wondered if there’d ever come a day where that kind of
mierda
didn’t bother him. Not likely.

“Well?”

The blonde, whose name was Paxton—or maybe
Payton—interrupted his pity party. She thrust her ultra-glossy lower lip
at him in full on pout mode. Clearly, she expected more attentiveness from the
Quimby pool boy. “Are ya coming, or not?”

“Not.” Ty knew that he was just another accoutrement to
these girls. A piece of hot Latin arm candy. He might as well be dead on the
inside, for all they cared. He’d give anything to meet a genuine girl, one with
real relationship potential.
Maybe in the next lifetime
…

Provoked by his rudeness, five surgically perfected faces
puckered into a singular expression of dismay. So he added, “I mean, no, thank
you. I’m just going to chill for a while—enjoy the sunshine.”

“Whatever.” Blondie was clearly “out.” As she
circumnavigated a precarious spin in her brand-new stilettos, one of the
brunettes in her entourage stepped forward. It appeared that Blondie had
competition for the final word.

The brunette, Alayna,—or possibly Aylana—arched
her brow in a manner that could only be described as
très
supercilious. “Don’t sit too long
by the Vanishing Spring,” she chirped with a smirk. “We’d be totally bummed if
you ended up like Eleanor Quimby.”

“Who’s that?” Apart from the logical connection of sharing a
last name with Quimby Acres, Ty had no clue
who
she
was talking about.

“You haven’t heard the story of Eleanor Quimby?” Scandalized
by Ty’s ignorance, she paused until he confirmed her accusation with a twist of
his head. As gleeful as a reality TV junkie in the throes of watching someone’s
private humiliation become public spectacle, she continued, “Quimby Acres used
to be a farm. Back in eighteen seventy-two, seventeen-year-old Eleanor Quimby
threw herself into this very pond to escape being married off to an old man.
Eyewitnesses saw Eleanor tumble into the water, but by the time they got to
her, she was gone.

“Everyone assumed she drowned. They tried to dredge the pond
for her body, but they never reached the bottom. That’s how they figured out
the pond was a spring. Some think Eleanor was swept away by an underground
river. Others believe she’s down there, still. Waiting.”

Ty suppressed an eye roll at the girl’s excessive
dramatics—no wonder she hadn’t gotten the lead in the fall play. “Waiting
for what?”

“For you!” The brunette’s bespangled hand shot forward and
grabbed Ty’s shoulders. He flinched while the audience cackled in delight.
Apparently, it was an old joke and he was its newest victim.

Regaining his composure, he leveled his gaze at the gaggle
of pampered, urban princesses. “I think I’ll live dangerously and take my
chances.”

“
C’est la vie
,” she giggled.

Not to be outdone, the blonde turned back, her eyes holding a
slightly different invitation for Ty than the one that fell from her lips.
“Drake’s parent just left for Paris. He’s throwing an epic party tonight. Meet
me there? Ten o’clock?”

Whether because he wanted them to leave, or because he
couldn’t face another dismal night watching Discovery Channel with Helga, he
said, “Sure. I’ll stop by.”

Clearly the victor, if only in her own vacant mind, the
blonde flashed her dark-haired friend a satisfied smile that declared “
Game on
!” and
ordered, “Let’s go, Biatches.”

As the Quimby girls sashayed away, Ty picked up a small,
white stone and plunked it into the spring. Small ripples danced across the
previously smooth surface as the rock sank into the bottomless depths. Maybe it
would come out on the other side of the world. In China.

As he mused about the opposite end of the earth, the water
rippled again. Then the rock broke the surface with a faint pop. It curved
through the air to land at his feet, which was undeniably weird.

Ty raised himself off the bench and walked to the water’s
edge. Something shimmered like sapphires just below the surface of the water.
He knelt for a better look, ignoring the jagged rocks pricking his knees and
shins. The brilliant sun cast a reflection of Ty’s surroundings onto the glassy
surface of the spring. The effect was like looking in a mirror. Except, in the
center, where his image should’ve been, was something else. Something entirely
unexpected. A girl—with lovely, peculiar eyes that moved him in a
profound, intimate way.

Ellie May Quimby blinked down at the reflection on the
mirror surface of the little pond and reckoned she’d dallied too long in the
sun. In place of her cornflower eyes, inquisitive brown ones peered at her from
beneath long lashes. Short, unruly curls replaced her straight, black braid.
And perhaps most importantly, the image was of a comely boy.

He was a stranger to these parts, certainly not anyone Pa
had occasion to do business with. Nor did he attend Sunday Mass at St.
Joseph’s—a dandy like him would’ve been the talk of the congregation. She
didn’t recollect his likeness from the brief time she’d attended the parish
school, neither.

As she puzzled over his unexpected appearance, the boy’s
image moved closer. He furrowed his brow and pressed his lips into a whitened
slash. His peculiar stare swept her face as if answers to a particularly hard
arithmetic question were written across her skin. When his eyes locked on hers,
his dark lashes flutterin’ in a powerful fetching way, Ellie feared she might
swoon. Not because he was awful nice to look at—which he certainly
was—but because he looked through her plain exterior and into the beauty
of her soul.

Heart hammerin’ like she’d just run to town and back, Ellie
leaned over him. Mouth agog, she watched him lift his arm. Slow and tentative,
his fingers reached toward her. The surface of the pond began to ripple, the
tiny wave obscuring his gesture.

“Ellie May!”

The shrill voice made Ellie start. With a gasp, she clasped
her hand to her breast and clamped her eyes shut. Across the field, Mama called
again, “Ellie May!”

Still shaking with fright, she opened her eyes and looked at
the pond. The calm surface was smooth as glass. It reflected the fine spring
day, a sky dotted with gossamer clouds and the occasional crow. She leaned
closer, gawking at her own likeness, which gawked back.

“Eleanor May Quimby—you come here right this minute!”
Mercy, Mama sounded in a state.

Rising to her feet, Ellie brushed the soft earth from her
skirt and took one final look at the water. No matter how she squinted, the
picture didn’t change. The boy had vanished.

Ellie vaulted the low wooden fence and wove her way in
between the green and purple rows of alfalfa toward the old farmhouse. Truth be
told, it was more shack than farmhouse, and in dire need of a coat of paint. As
Ellie drew close, she frowned, noticing another shutter that had rotted from
its hinge and now hung askew.

Mama had long given up on the idea of improvements of any
sort. Beaten down by life, her daily aspirations seemed centered on not
provoking her husband’s wrath.
Way to aim high, Mama.

When Ellie came within spitting distance of the house, she
stopped. A strange sense of foreboding—similar to the day Pa had come and
removed her from St. Joseph’s school for good—gripped her.
Storm’s comin’
.

A glance overhead revealed nothing more ominous than a huge
expanse of spring sky, the same pale blue as robins’ eggs. Ellie shut her eyes
and listened to her surroundings. Birds chirped. In the distance, a dog barked.
The shrieks of her brothers and sisters carried from where they played round
back. Nothing amiss.

Perhaps it was the peculiar incident at the pond. Not only
had the boy been uncommonly beautiful, his ways had been familiar. He’d held
her in his gaze as if she were someone special, not some poor sharecropper’s
daughter. For an instant, she’d felt pretty and smart—precious. Surely a
boy who could make a girl feel like that didn’t actually exist. And if he did,
he’d be too fine for the likes of Ellie May Quimby.

Best get on with it
.

Ellie stepped into the squalid house, anticipating Mama’s
pinched
face. She braced for the unavoidable tongue-lashing.
Instead, Mama lavished her with a tight-lipped smile.

Mama’s nervous glance flitted from her daughter to her
husband. Pa gave a nod as powerful as a slap and his wife’s attention snapped
back to her oldest child. “Ellie May, we have company.”

She stepped aside to reveal their nearest neighbor fidgeting
impatiently in his Sunday best. Hezekiah Betts owned half the farms in Cook
County. Known for being an illiterate heathen, he didn’t intermingle with
polite society. And he never had occasion for social calls. He was a man of
business, who, despite his crude demeanor, had made himself very rich.

Farmer Betts lumbered to his feet. He ran one thick hand
through his gray mat of hair while he inspected Ellie with beady eyes. His
critical stare never wavered as he demanded of Pa, “You say she’s had book
learnin’?”

Pa spoke, his high, wheedling voice fluctuating with
obeisance. “Yessir. Three years at the Catholic school.”

Farmer Betts grunted. “She’ll do then.”

“And you’ll see to my debts?”

The question seemed to give the old man pause. He turned on
Pa quick as a wink. “She’s not given to gambling and drink, is she?”

“No, Sir.” Pa seemed to take no offense to the accusation
that Ellie and he share the same weaknesses. “She’s not even my blood.”

That was fact. Mr. Quimby was her pa—the only one
she’d ever known—but he wasn’t her daddy. Days after Ellie had come into
the world her daddy had left it, thrown from his horse in a riding accident.

By all accounts, Ellie’s daddy had been a fine upstanding
man, despite his being impoverished. Although his profession had been farming,
he’d been awful fond of books. Father McGinty claimed her daddy knew all kinds
of facts about the natural world—and that he’d committed all the psalms
to memory. As the kind priest had explained, Daddy had been too good for this
world, and from all Ellie knew of life, she was inclined to believe it.

Godless Farmer Betts searched Ellie to determine the truth
of her parentage for himself. His penetrating scrutiny caused Ellie’s cheeks to
prickle as he wet his non-existent lips. With a satisfied nod, he announced,
“I’ll come for her on the ‘morrow.”

Without another word, the old neighbor trudged into the
waning afternoon.

Ellie May turned to Mama for an explanation. “What am I to
do for Farmer Betts?”

Mama grimaced, so that her lips disappeared into a bloodless
gash, and ducked her head into her sewing. After a brief pause, Ellie tried
again. “Mama? Am I to be of service to Farmer Betts?”

From across the room, Pa helped himself to the few coins
kept in the tin above the fire before regarding Ellie with a
pinched
brow. “Quit pesterin’ your mama, girl. You best be fixin’ supper now.”

“Yessir.”

Ellie scrambled to make biscuits. As she measured out flour
and cut in the milk, she thought about how differently she’d do things when she
had a family of her own. Her children would complete their primary schooling and
perhaps even go on to college. If they had questions, she’d do her best to
answer them, plainly and with honesty. They’d always feel safe and loved. She’d
never arrange for them to go work for someone as mean as Hezekiah Betts, no
matter how desperate the circumstances.

Most importantly, when she was grown, Ellie would marry for
love. Her home would be one of learning and joy. And she’d treat each day with
her family as a gift. And her husband—well, she’d look at him the way the
boy in the pond had looked at her.

Partying with the Quimby kids had been a bust. Ty spent most
of the time dodging Payton—Paxton?—and obsessing over a girl that
didn’t exist.

When she’d first appeared at the Vanishing Spring, he’d
rubbed his eyes trying to correct what had to be a hallucination—clearly
the brunette’s creepy tale had him imagining things. The girl looked nothing
like Quimby girls. Raven black hair framed her makeup-free, freckled face and
accentuated her bright sapphire eyes. She’d peered at him a bit shyly but with
undisguised curiosity, not the artfully practiced look of boredom that greeted
him on a daily basis.

She was genuine and sweet—and he’d gotten all that
from sixty seconds of soulful connection? Ty didn’t believe in love at first
sight, and yet the girl in the water felt like a kindred spirit. She felt more
real than anything had in a long time.

What was she? Ghost? Water sprite, selkie, mermaid? Whatever
she was, those sparkling eyes had haunted him all evening. After he’d bailed on
the party, he’d spent the rest of the night researching water creatures and the
unsettling case of Eleanor Quimby.

Alayna/Aylana had been right. The most popular theory was
that Eleanor had drowned in the spring. The city of Wilmette website had a
whole page dedicated to this version of Eleanor’s tragic demise. But there were
others who speculated she’d run away, gone West. A couple of the fringe groups
claimed
she’d been abducted by aliens
. And one
wacked-out site hypothesized that she’d stumbled onto a time portal and traveled
to another time.