The Accidental Siren (31 page)

She stepped forward. “Sheriff, we’d like to
play in the woods for five more minutes.”

His left knee was bent, causing his whole
body to slouch to one side like a puppet without a hand up its
butt.

I looked at Whit. He shrugged.

Mara took another step which placed her two
feet away from the paralyzed cop. She tilted her head with all the
innocence of a farmer’s daughter, but her voice lowered to a
sinister purr. “Mr. Beeder?”

His shoulder twitched and his knee snapped to
attention. “Why don’t you kids poke around the woods for a bit?” he
said. “No harm in that, I suppose!”

Mara relaxed her porcelain pose and skipped
back to my side. “That’s so sweet of you, Sheriff Beeder, but my
friends and I have decided to hang out by the beach. Thanks
again!”

The man tipped his hat, “Probably for the
best. G’day miss.”

Whit and I questioned Mara about her
audacity, but she ignored us. As we strolled around the castle, we
watched the sheriff poking around the stumps and raspberries
bushes. Twice he bent down: once to inspect a mysterious pile of
deer turds, and once to retrieve a plastic baggie from the weeds.
He sniffed the baggie, removed a sheath from his pocket, then
slipped the suspicious-looking bag inside.

We rolled Whit down the retaining wall
staircase one step at a time. Mara took the front and I took the
back, lifting just enough to control the bounce. “You two are
better than shocks!” he said.

We sat together on the top ridge of the dune
and raked our fingers through the sand. Mara discovered a solitary
dandelion tangled in the grass. “Look at this wish,” she said.
“Must be the last one of the summer.”

“Wish?” I dug my fingers below the root
system and plucked it from the sand. “Around here, we call ‘em
‘dandelions.’”

“They’re called
taraxacum officinale
,”
Whit said.

I rolled my eyes.

“The dune grass must’ve kept the seeds from
floating away.”

Mara pinched the stem and gently removed it
from my hand. “I bet it’s extra lucky.”

“I wonder why the silliest things grant
wishes,” I said. “Weeds, eyelashes, chicken bones, horse poop,
clovers... if they really worked, you’d think they’d be harder to
find.”

“Or everybody on the planet would be happy,”
Whit said.

Mara ignored our cynicism. She held the
flower to her perfect lips, closed her eyes, and blew away the
delicate seeds.

* * *

Mara’s new earrings were a side note in the
hectic afternoon. Mom missed them in the previous night’s chaos,
but noticed them immediately in the daylight. Mara left me out of
it, claiming she pierced them by herself.

I knew enough about the fostering rulebook to
know that Mom was supposed to report Mara’s shenanigans to the
social worker. Instead, she complimented her on the pretty shade of
violet, then suggested a dab of alcohol twice a day to ward off
infection.

Mom spent the rest of the day apologizing to
friends and family for the canceled screening, explaining–the best
she knew how–the reasons for my procrastination.

While Mara and Whit made lemon-lime slushes
in the blender, Dad tapped me on the shoulder and ushered me
discreetly into his office. “James,” he said, “have a seat.”

I rarely saw my father in his element. He
looked dignified among rows of books, unraveled blueprints, and a
mug of pens on his cherry-wood desk. He pointed to the drawings and
asked, “Do you know what these are?”

“Blueprints?” I said.

“On the surface, you’re right. But to your
old man, they’re more than a bunch of straight lines on blue
paper.”

The blender whirred in the kitchen followed
by a flood of giggles.
Get to the stinkin’ point, Dad.

“When I see a drawing that’s incomplete, I
know it means that I get to spend less time with you and your
sister. It means less time with my beautiful wife. Sometimes, an
incomplete drawing wears me out so much that I need to lock myself
in the tower and watch birds, just to feel...” He paused to search
for the perfect word. “...
untethered
. I see unfinished work,
and I want to throw it on the floor and run home to my family. But
that’s the job. And if I don’t finish the drawings, my clients get
mad. And if I lose clients, then I can’t be the executive producer
on my son’s brilliant films. My job requires me to meet deadlines,
and I’ve never missed one.”

I finally saw where this lecture was going. I
nodded.

Dad leaned forward and watched me over his
spectacle rims. “But there’s more to these blueprints than a lesson
about procrastination. These drawings represent the sheer joy I
have for my job. I’m one of the few, James. I get to do what I
love. When I was your age, I made a promise to myself that I was
going to be an architect. It took hard work and persistence, but
eventually, I made it. And that’s what I want for you. If you want
to be a director, then work your butt off until you become a
director. Figure out what you love to do, and make that your job.
There’s nothing more important in life.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to–”

“No excuses, son. Just remember what I
said.”

“I will.”

Dad turned his attention to the sheet in
front of him and removed a pen from the mug.

I stood.

“James?” he said without looking up.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“What’s the story with you and Mara?”

“What do you mean?”

Dad ignored my question. I knew
exactly
what he meant, and he knew it.

“We’re friends...” I said. “But we kinda like
each other too.”
Not another lecture,
I thought.
Please
not another lecture!

“Does your mother know?”

“No. Please don’t tell her!”

Dad placed his pen in the mug, removed his
glasses altogether, and spoke as much with his eyes as with his
voice. “I’ll refrain from telling your mother... on one
condition.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to enjoy the night.”

The expression on my face reflected my
puzzlement.

“When I told you that there’s nothing more
important in life than doing what you love for a living, I was
lying.”

“What–”

“Tonight will be Mara’s first time at a
carnival, am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“She’s had a messy childhood, James. And I
know some of that has been rubbing off on you. If you like that
girl, then treat her right tonight. Split an elephant ear, show her
the rides, share the excitement. Tell her how you feel, unabashedly
and unafraid. And if she doubts you, tell her again. Most
importantly, remember the moments you spend together, then keep
those memories safe. There’s nothing sweeter in life than young
love. You only experience it once, and it’s over much too
soon.”

* * *

As the reader of this memoir, you’re probably
wondering why the hell my parents let us out of the house after the
mayhem the little foster girl brought upon our home. But keep in
mind your privileged perspective. You see the important bits laid
out before you in structured prose. The cruelty of Danny
Bompensaro, Livy’s break with reality, the boys in the trees, Ms.
Grisham’s roll of film, the twins’ bad behavior, my incomplete
fairytale;
you
see Mara as the eye of the storm. But to my
parents, these were isolated incidents without a logical link.
Putting the pieces together required faith in the impossible, a
childlike understanding of Mara’s total effect. Mom approached a
fantastical explanation after a trip to the mall. She recognized
the mysterious force urging her to buy ungodly amounts of clothes
for the child. But in the end, black can never be white, one plus
one must always equal two, and Mara Lynn was a normal little
girl.

Besides, we were kids. Not only did the
carnival mark the end of our summer vacation, but it would be
Mara’s first experience. To deny us the taste of cotton candy and
the nausea from upside-down rides was practically a form of child
abuse.

My parents may have been lax, but total
freedom was not an option. Mara and I were still grounded, Livy was
a basket case, and Whit’s Mom would only let him go if there was a
strict chaperone. Since the night had already been reserved for the
cancelled
Fairytale
premiere, Mom and Dad were free to serve
as our personal bodyguards.

Livy begged to stay home. She was already
scheduled to see a therapist on the first day of eighth grade, a
punishment she considered adequate for dancing semi-nude for
strange boys and spitting on Mara. But Mom refused to leave her
alone. “If you’re not up to riding the rides, you’re welcome to
join the old geezers on the bench. Your father and I love to
people-watch in big crowds.”

“Riiight,” Livy said. “So my friends can spot
me hangin’ with my parents while Mara’s being adorable and havin’
fun.”

When Livy prepared herself for the evening
with powder on her arms, legs, and exposed midriff, Mom confiscated
her makeup case, replaced the stash in her purse with a single tube
of lip gloss, and lead her–sobbing–to the car.

We arranged to meet Kimmy and Haley at Great
Lakes
Faaamily
Diner. Jokes were made, impressions
performed; Mara was teased for her commercial but she laughed with
the rest, her tongue still green from the homemade slush.

Mom regaled the kids with the story about my
first time with a video camera (an anecdote I suspect she was
saving for my big debut). She spoke with her hands and reenacted
the funny parts with fries and a burger. “So I peek in his bedroom
door and there’s Whitney, laying on the desk, covered from head to
toe in ketchup, screaming louder than a chicken on fire! James
finally says ‘cut,’ then tells Whit he’s doing it all wrong; he
needs to imagine that a zombie is really eating his legs!”

I always admired my mother’s ability to find
the good in bad situations. Even as I write this, she calls me
twice a week with stories of the one-eyed chemo nurse, (“She’s such
a sweetheart!”) or tales from Dad’s escapades (“Last week he
started teaching himself the guitar, now he’s brewing beer in the
garage. Heaven help us if he does both in the same night!”)

“Nobody tells you how itchy ketchup can be,”
Whit said and we laughed.

“And you never complained!” Mom replied.
“James just pushed record, yelled ‘action,’ and you go at it
again!”

“I was so peeved at James,” Livy added and
the table fell quiet. “I got out of the shower that night and my
towel was covered in Whit’s nasty blood.” Livy’s memory was only a
little bit funny, but we toppled together in fits of laughter.

I found Mara’s hand beneath the table and
took it. The skin was cold. The nails–usually trimmed to the
perfect length–were jagged and torn.

I remembered my dad’s advise. I leaned in. My
breath stiffened the invisible fur that lined her nape. Then I
whispered in her ear–just above that calling card I punctured in
her flesh the night before–
“I love you.”

* * *

The commotion was electric in Grand Harbor.
We heard the carnival before we saw it; so many people–so many
voices–that the human component became an ocean of white noise for
the diving and soaring machines, rattling wheels, whooshing cages,
and game booths singing their automatic tunes. Children screamed.
Somewhere in the middle, a balloon popped.

The Lakeshore Celebration was the place to be
on the last Friday in August. Any middle-schooler worth his
reputation couldn’t walk ten steps without a high-five or a nod
from a friend. The carnival was a cultural event, a social
necessity, and the most fun a group of twelve-year-olds could have
in West Michigan.

It would serve as the perfect finale to a
truly demented summer.

The parking lots were hopeless; metal and
concrete grids of cars, trailers and motorcycles like a game of
Tetris ready to bust. The back roads were one-way streets winding
through neighborhoods lined with a frustrating train of parked
cars.

Dad dropped us off at the rear of the
Community Center and gave Mom a stack of twenties for our
wristbands. “Can you handle five kids?” he asked.

Mom put her fists on her love handles and
cocked her head.

Dad backpedaled. “I know it’s your job to
watch kids...”

“You better believe it.”

“Just be extra careful tonight. No rides
until I park the car.”

The kids fell out the sliding door in a heap,
except Whit who waited patiently in the back seat as Mom assembled
his chair. As Dad drove away, our heads turned to the sky. The
building before us blocked our view of the rides, but the carnival
illuminated the night with a blinking haze.

Outside, the Community Center looked like an
abandoned warehouse. Inside, the corridors were alive with the
hustle and bustle of creativity, passion, spirited conversation,
and tons of art.

“Cool,” Kimmy said, breezing through the back
doors to a floor-to-ceiling abstract painting.

“Looks like tie-dye,” Haley said, holding out
her shirt for comparison.

Tables ran the length of the hallway with
paintings on miniature easels and sculptures scattered throughout.
Each item had a placard beside it with the title, the name of the
artist, a brief description of the piece, and a number for judging
purposes.

I caught up to Mara and grabbed her wrist.
“Hey there. Come with me?”

Mara’s arm was limp. Her mind was elsewhere.
“I can’t,” she said and stood on tip-toes to survey the crowd. “Do
you know what time it is?”

I checked my watch. “Only seven-thirty.”

“I need to talk to Livy.”

“She’s still kinda touchy,” I said. “I
wouldn’t–”

“I need to make it better,” she insisted,
then broke from my grip and vanished into the mob.