The Year the Swallows Came Early (4 page)

I
told Frankie that taking Luis's dinghy out at this time of day was a bad idea. I said, “The fog is still coming in. It's practically dark. Luis will wonder where you are.” Things like that.

But Frankie kept walking real fast toward the end of the dock, ignoring me, and then stepped into the blue dinghy Luis kept tied up there.

“Where are you going anyway?” I said as I caught up to him, noticing that people were bringing their boats
in
for the day.

At the sound of my voice, Marisol and Felix
looked up from Marisol's drawing.

Frankie reached back to pull the starter cord on the engine. “Can you throw me the line?” he asked, with his arm stretched out to catch it.

I waited for him to answer my question. Puffs of smoke rose from behind the engine while the smell of gasoline looped around us.

Finally he said, “I'm just going for a ride.” He extended his arm out farther then, like he was saying,
Okay, now will you throw me the line? I told you what you wanted to know.

“You're going for a ride? Out there?” Felix asked as he walked up to us. He looked into the distance. His hands and knees were covered in light-blue chalk dust.

“Yeah,” Frankie told him.

“Maybe I'll come too,” I heard myself say. I untied the rope from the pier post and tossed it to him. Even though I wanted to get home and talk to Mama more than anything, I didn't want to leave Frankie alone. I knew he'd never actually tell me what was wrong, but if I looked close
enough, I could see it sometimes. I could see it by the way he'd squint into the air, looking at nothing—which meant he did not agree with what someone said. Or by the way he'd turn and walk away in the middle of a conversation. You knew he was real upset then. I figured him getting into the boat and wanting to leave had to do with what Mr. Tom had said.

Frankie shrugged. “Fine,” he told me, slowly backing the boat away from the dock. “You coming or not?”

I glanced out at the fog skimming the top of the sea.

“Can I come too?” Felix asked.

“No, you cannot go with them out there in this weather, Felix Cruz,” Marisol said as she stomped toward us and ushered her brother away in a hurry. Like we were common criminals on a crime spree, and before long Felix would be spraying things with hose water and taking boat rides in the fog just because he'd associated with us.

The dinghy inched farther away as Frankie impatiently pressed the motor.

“Wait!” I yelled. “I'm coming.”

He reversed the boat and brought it alongside the dock. “Put your life vest on,” he told me as I stepped inside.

He waited while I strapped my vest around my waist and sat down on the bench opposite him. Then we picked up speed as Frankie steered us toward the open ocean.

“You gonna wear
your
life vest?” I yelled to him.

He shrugged.

“So where are we going?” I gripped my seat.

Frankie made a fast left turn, carving a capital letter
C
in the water. “To the far end of the jetty. There's something I need to get.”

I pictured the line of huge black rocks stacked high on top of one another to keep the big waves and swells from hitting our dock. And I wondered what he would need to get there.

We raced along, our dinghy rising and falling
with the crest of the tide. Foamy sprays of cold water splashed over the sides onto our tennis shoes while the fog built a thick wall around us. I held on so tight to my seat that my hands became stuck in a holding-on position.

If you think the ocean looks nice and peaceful from shore, well, then you haven't been on it while the fog rolls in.

Frankie said he'd never seen it this dark for it still technically being daytime. I said the shadows on the water looked just like shark fins.

When we finally got to the far end of the jetty, he shut the motor off, and our dinghy scratched against the huge jagged rocks. Bits of uprooted seaweed swirled next to us in the water. Seagulls flew from their usual spot on the boulders at the sound of us nearing.

Frankie stepped out and quickly tied the dinghy to a pointed rock. “Bail some of that water out,” he told me, pointing to the bottom of the boat.

“I'm not getting out,” I said. In the distance,
I heard the foghorn warning boaters to be careful.

“I'll be right back then,” he told me.

I nodded. “Hurry.”

I waited.

I pulled my life vest tighter.

I wished I hadn't come.

I decided to bail water, but no matter how much water I threw out, it never seemed to get lower than the tops of my shoelaces. I thought,
There's a hole in the boat. The ocean is seeping in. It's going to sink. Come on, Frankie. Hurry.

Leave it to the late-afternoon-turning-to-night fog to play all kinds of tricks on your eyes. Because I was pretty sure I saw an enormous sea lion swim by. One with huge flippers. And I imagined him smashing the dinghy with one of them and sending it onto its side.

So I counted the blasts from the foghorn to keep me from thinking about that sea lion and his flippers.

A million minutes later, when I'd counted all
the way to thirty-six, Frankie came back holding a smallish green metal box about the size of a brick. He quickly stepped into the dinghy with it and started the motor. “I thought you were going to bail the water out,” he told me.

“I tried. But it didn't work. What's that?” I asked, looking at the metal box.

He ran his hand along the top of the box as the dinghy waited for him to steer it home. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a black stone just smaller than the box. When he opened the box, I could see postcards inside. The top one read,
Greetings from Mexico
, with a picture of a smiling sun on it. “They're postcards from my mother,” he told me. “I've been keeping them here, buried under the big rock by the red warning buoy. Every time I'd get a postcard, I'd bring it out here and put it in this box.”

I watched as he placed the black stone on top of the pile of postcards and closed the box tight.

“How many are in there?” I said.

“Not many.”

“Why'd you put the stone inside?”

“So it will sink,” he said. Then he steered us toward the shore so fast that I slipped back on my seat.

For a long time, neither of us said anything. I squinted into the gray damp air as the dinghy bounced across the water, making its way home. I tried to think of things to say that might help so he wouldn't be so mad at his mama.

When Frankie cut the motor, we were almost back to the dock. I couldn't see it through the fog, but I heard shore sounds echoing off the top of the water. Boat halyards. Engines. A dad yelling for his boy.

“Why'd you stop?” I asked him. “We're almost back. Come on, Frankie, let's go.”

“Just a minute,” he told me.

The smell of salt and clamshells rose up around us as I watched him lean over the side of the dinghy. He looked deep into the ocean for a long time, like he was making sure it was a good spot.

Then he held the metal box with the postcards
from his mama inside, and the black stone that would make sure it sank, over the sea, over the spot he'd been looking at for so long.

And he quickly dropped it into the amber green-gray water, like a person does who drops a penny off a tall building. Like he couldn't wait to see it disappear.

I
found a note on the kitchen table from Mama when I got home. I stood in damp tennis shoes reading it.

I crumpled the note into a wad and threw it into the corner of the room, mad I'd missed her. The note unfolded slowly, bit by bit, like it was trying to be read again. Like it was saying,
Are you sure you don't want to have a second look? There might be a secret code in here, or something you didn't see the first time.

But I ignored it and walked into the living room.

With Saturday being Mama's usual late day at the salon—in order to fit in her clients who had to work during the week—I had plenty of time to wait for her to tell me what was going on.

But waiting is the hardest thing anyone ever has to do. You think you can just sit and let time go by. Well, no. Because that is exactly when time does
not
go by. You look at the clock and think,
Surely it has been ten minutes by now
, when it has only been one or two.

So I dusted the furniture.

I arranged yellow roses from the garden in a glass on the table.

I wiped up the crumbs on the countertop in the kitchen, the ones that fell from the toaster.

I decided to use extreme kindness and politeness with her when she got home. The kind Mama said they use in Louisiana.

I checked my cooking notebook for ideas. I am here to tell you that I made the best dinner I could think of because I am good at coming up with the exact right food for every situation.

Say you are needing to tell your parents about a worse-than-normal grade you got on a test. I have a recipe for that: macaroni and cheese. Or say you are wanting to ask for something new, like a pair of tennis shoes. I have a recipe for that: French toast with whipped cream.

But if you know you'll more than likely be listening to bad news, then I have a whole menu for that: Gorton's frozen fish sticks with creamed corn and milk.

After I cooked it all, I set everything out on our hardly-ever-used best plates.

And when I stepped back from the dinner
table, I thought it looked perfect. Arranged fine enough to get anyone to tell the facts.

I stood by the front door so I could watch for her. Tiny silverfish bugs scattered from under the doormat. The smell of salt drifted in from the ocean on a nighttime breeze that made the roses along the fence bend slightly sideways, like they were reaching their necks to see Mama walk up the street like I was.

After forever, I saw her coming, carrying her black bag of beauty supplies. The ones we got for free to try and then report back to the salon owner on how well they made our hair shine, or how strong our ends became after just one washing.

“Hi, Mama,” I said, real sweet, as she walked up the sidewalk. “I made dinner for us so you wouldn't have to cook. I tried to think about other people like you tell me to. I thought you would be hungry.” I stepped aside from the front door, letting her walk in before me.

She dropped her bag of supplies onto the couch and sat down to take off her high heels.

She looked tired.

“Thanks, baby,” she said, “but I thought we'd go out for dinner tonight.”

I looked at the table and hoped she would notice all the trouble I went to. She followed my eyes to the kitchen and saw how I had set everything out. But it didn't seem to matter. Instead she got up and said, “I'll take a quick bath and then we'll go, all right?”

“But, Mama,” I answered, “I already made dinner.”

She turned and walked down the hall to her bathroom.

“Why did you call the police?” I blurted out, knowing my plan had failed, leaving extreme kindness behind.

She stopped. And for a second, I thought she would tell me by the way she looked so long at the carpet.

“I have a right to know.” I took a step toward her, but her eyes met mine and stopped me.

“I just walked in, Groovy, and it's been a
very
long day.” She pulled her sweater over her head and nodded. “But you're right. You need to know. I'll be out in a few minutes.” Then she pulled the door shut quietly, like she was tired of arguing and had no more strength.

I slumped onto the couch.

I waited.

I could hear the water running in the bathroom. Tears settled into the corners of my eyes.

I wanted to run after Mama and tell her that she had no right to send Daddy away. I wanted to grab her by the arm and make her explain it to me. I wanted to throw the dinner and yellow roses into the trash.

I wanted to yell.

But I knew she would only become angry with me. Like she did when Daddy would try to force her to see things his way.

So I decided I would do whatever it took to get her to tell me what had happened. If she would rather go out to dinner, that would be fine with me.

A
million minutes later Mama came out.

I jumped up quick from the couch. “Ready to go?” I looked at her face, trying to read her, but determined to get my way this time.

“Yep.” She picked up her purse.

“Do you wanna call ahead for a table?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Shouldn't we clean up the dishes first?”

“Later, baby,” she told me.

“Fine,” I told her.

She stopped in the doorway and looked me over. “You're going to wear that?”

I checked my outfit. Skirt, T-shirt, tennis shoes. It seemed okay. “Yes,” I answered, like maybe I wasn't going to after all. “Why, should I change?” I wondered how she could notice what I wore at a time like this.

“No,” she said in her voice that really meant yes. “I guess you're fine.”

We walked down the hill toward José's Cantina, Marisol's father's restaurant. The fog was even thicker than before. If I squinted, I could see it rolling like little tumbleweeds across the street, moving like it was in a hurry to get somewhere.

I thought about Daddy and knew that if he were here with me as we walked blind through the fog with practically no visibility, and under emotional distress at the same time, he'd put his arm around me and say, “Don't worry, Groovy. I'm right here.” Just like he did whenever I woke up from a bad dream when I was younger. He'd sit
with me until I fell asleep again. I'd say, “Daddy, tell me about the day I was born.” And he'd tell it like it happened just yesterday, like it had been the best day ever in the whole history of the world.

“I've been thinking, baby,” Mama said loudly in a happyish voice.

I looked up at her, surprised at her tone after our talk at home.

“You know those big strawberries you make for special occasions? The ones covered in chocolate like you made yesterday?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, every time you make those, they look so beautiful. I feel like a queen when I eat one.” Mama stopped and sighed. She watched the fog rolling quietly in our path.

I could almost
see
the inside of her head working, coming up with some kind of a plan right there, and I wondered what this had to do with Daddy.

“Anyway”—she shrugged and started walking again—“I was thinking that, well, it might
be nice if you started making those chocolate-covered strawberries more often.”

“But they're for special occasions. Like birthdays.” I didn't mention Daddy probably not having his new job anymore.

“Well, it's someone's birthday every day, Groovy. Look in the horoscope section of the newspaper and you can clearly see that.”

“But I don't know those people. Why would I make them strawberries?”

“You could
sell
the strawberries, baby. You could make up a nice batch every now and then and ask Luis to sell them for you. I'm sure he'd do that. People would love your strawberries.”

“I guess.”

“Groovy.” Mama stopped and looked at me. “You could start saving the money you made for later, when you need it. For something special.” She nodded and then started walking again.

“I'll think about it,” I said. But I knew right away exactly what I would save for. Mama was right. Even with the savings account Great-
grandmother had left for my future, cooking school would probably be expensive. Not to mention I'd need chef's knives, aprons with my name written on them, and white bakery hats. The kind that stand tall and high in the shape of an oval. I decided maybe I
could
sell chocolate-covered strawberries.

“It's just an idea,” Mama said. And then quietly added, “You never know when things can change. It's good to be prepared.”

I looked over at her. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” she said.

When we got to José's Cantina, we were the only ones there besides three tourists sitting at the bar. They were drinking sodas and talking loudly about how when a storm system comes in from offshore like this, the coastal weather is completely unpredictable and dangerous for boaters. I heard them say they were going to have to spend the night in town until the weather cleared up.

“Here for dinner kinda late,” Marisol said when she saw us. She walked toward us from the
kitchen. Felix was right behind her, carrying two paper cups with straws sticking out of the tops. “Need a table?”

“Thank you,” Mama told her.

I didn't say anything to her on purpose.

“Here you go,” Marisol said, waving toward the back of the restaurant.

Mama and I sat at our usual table by the fire pit, where the restaurant roasted whole chickens and green onions. I started eating the corn chips and salsa the busboy brought us while Mama lit the red candle in the middle of our table. Pictures of swallows hung on every wall. Flocks of swallows, swallows perched on houses, swallows in olive trees.

“Well, see ya,” Marisol told us.

“See ya,” Felix said. He raised his hand to wave good-bye but then stopped so he wouldn't spill the sodas he was holding.

Marisol rolled her eyes and left. Felix hurried behind her. “I have your drink, Marisol,” he called.

After a while I said to Mama, “So, we're here now.” Which really translated to,
I'm waiting patiently but I'm not feeling patient anymore.

The waitress walked over and stood next to our table.

“We'll have two virgin strawberry margaritas,” Mama told the waitress. “And ask the bartender to use the fresh strawberries, not the frozen mix.” She smiled real nice then, to be sure to get her way. I knew she never drank alcohol, in order to keep toxins out of her body and all.

“Well,” Mama said after the waitress brought our drinks, “I'm sure you want me to tell you the reason I called the police about your father.”

I looked up right away. “Yes.”

Mama breathed in deeply and then motioned for the waitress to come back. She told her that we would be a while before we ordered our dinner and would she please mind giving us some privacy in the meantime.

The waitress shrugged her shoulders and
started to walk away. Which probably translated to she'd rather not have to take our order anyway.

Mama thanked her and turned to me.

I could tell she was ready to tell me something very important by the way she straightened up in her seat and arranged her fork and knife perfectly on the table next to her plate.

“But before I can tell you about your father,” she said, “I have to tell you the
whole
story of your great-grandmother. The original Eleanor Robinson.”