Dream Within a Dream Page 4

  “You used to paint,” says Boots. “When we first met. You painted my dog Jack.”

  “Just before he bit me,” says Jake, remembering.

  George and I look at each other. I know we are thinking the same thing—how can Jake paint when he can’t see clearly?

  “Anyone and everyone can paint!” says Micha.

  “I came to ask George and Louisiana a favor,” says Georgia. “We’re going to paint some people on the island and hang the pictures in the library. The children in Micha’s art class want to call the exhibit ‘Secrets of the Island.’ I teach George and know he is a great writer, and he says you have great insight, Louisiana. Could you two visit these islanders and write about them? To go with the paintings?”

  I stare at George. How did he know that my words were private, inside my head? How did he know they were even there?

  He sees my stare.

  “Louisa is thinking that she only thinks interior thoughts. And she thinks in what I call ‘spurts.’ ”

  Spurts? That doesn’t have a very intelligent sound to it.

  “Ah, like a poem, maybe?” says Georgia. “A poem is fine too.”

  “I will help with the interviews,” says George, “but Louisa should be the writer. She has unique observations.”

  “I can think of interesting people to visit: Billie the bird woman, Ashley the writer, artist, and puppet maker . . .”

  “And Angelo and Eliasi,” adds Micha.

  “Good. I think we should do this every year—the islanders will get to know each other in new ways,” says Georgia.

  And then they are gone. And George is going to make me pull out my private thoughts and put them on paper.

  George smiles at me.

  I don’t smile back.

  10

  Words

  “Are you still mad at me for getting you into this?” asks George as we walk to our first interview.

  “Yes,” I say.

  George smiles, not at me but to himself, which makes me doubt everything—whether I can write, whether I am really mad.

  “She is,” echoes Theo, who is walking next to me.

  Theo has asked to come with us.

  “I’ve read all of Ashley’s books,” says Theo.

  We walk on.

  “There’s Ashley’s house,” says George.

  I am quiet, and George looks over to me.

  “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

  Now I really hate George because he knows.

  Ashley’s house looks out over the water.

  ASHLEY

  George knocks on the door.

  “Come in!”

  We open the door and walk into a room filled with toys and paintings, and puppets almost as tall as Theo.

  “I’m out here,” calls Ashley.

  He’s in his painting room, and he turns and smiles.

  His face is the same color as George’s face.

  “Welcome to my world. I was born far away, and when I came to visit the island one day I knew I wanted to live here forever.”

  “Yes!” says Theo fervently.

  “You too?” asks Ashley.

  He peers closely at Theo.

  “You too?” he repeats in a kind, understanding voice.

  Theo nods.

  “I’m Theo,” my brother blurts out as if he can’t help it. “I’ve read all your books.”

  “Then you deserve a look at the book I’m working on now,” says Ashley.

  “George has told me you are his best friend, Louisiana. Loo ees ee anna.” He sings my name. “Beautiful name.”

  He stretches out his words.

  His voice is music. I feel the way Theo sometimes feels—tears in my eyes, moved by Ashley’s interest and understanding of Theo.

  And his kindness.

  When we say good-bye to Ashley, Theo walks backward, still looking at Ashley’s house.

  “You’re very quiet,” says George.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m writing in my head,” I say. “I can do this.”

  “I know you can,” says George.

  “We could begin the piece ‘His voice is music,’ ” I say.

  I put out my hand without looking at George, and he takes it.

  We walk down the road, holding hands.

  Theo still walks backward.

  BILLIE and the BIRDS

  George and I, Theo, Dahlia, and Marco all traipse up the hill to visit Billie. Dahlia has brought her large sketchbook.

  “She’s a friend of my mother’s,” says Dahlia. “I want to draw her so I can paint her with a bird and more.”

  “A bird and more?” I ask.

  “You’ll see,” says Dahlia with a strange, happy look.

  Dahlia doesn’t knock at the front door. She beckons us around the house. There are many trees. I can hear a fountain in the backyard.

  And then there is Billie in a chair, with birds everywhere—at her feet, on the chair, on the ground around her, on the low limbs of trees.

  Billie, slim with hair less red than mine, waves a hand at Dahlia. When we walk into the yard, a cloud of birds flies up in a tree, peering at us. But one stays.

  “This is Louisa and Theo,” says Dahlia. “You know George and Marco.”

  “I do. Hi there.” She points. “This is Kiki, the mother of many of those looking at you suspiciously. Do you want to feed her?”

  Billie pours some birdseed into my hand. “Just hold out your hand. She’s a chickadee. They’re very tame.”

  I am startled when Kiki flies to my hand. I feel her tiny feet on my palm. I hold my breath as she stays there for a moment, then flies away with a seed.

  Billie smiles at the look on my face.

  “Can I do it?” asks Theo.

  “Sure. Here’s some seed.”

  “The birds have always come here.” Three flock to Theo’s hand. His eyes widen at the feel of them.

  “Here come the titmice, Marco. They’re more timid, but they’re beautiful in the hand with their big black eyes.”

  “I can see the eye,” says Marco. “My father says crows are very smart.”

  “Angelo is right,” says Billie. “They come from time to time. They left my mother and father gifts when they fed them. And I have a basket full of them. They’re on the table.”

  The other birds fly down, and Billie feeds them.

  In the basket are shells, many beads, a child’s red barrette.

  “The birds and I are kind to one another,” says Billie.

  And then there is a huge cloud of birds around us all.

  And as Marco holds out his hand, a cardinal comes, picks up a seed, and flies up to the tree.

  “Ah, a treat for you, Marco,” says Billie.

  Marco doesn’t say anything, but stares up at the tree, looking at the cardinal.

  Even though there are dozens and dozens of birds fluttering and cheeping around us, this seems to me one of the most peaceful and calm places I’ve ever been.

  We walk home. George looks at me.

  “First line for today?”

  “A bird and more,” I say. “Those were Dahlia’s words.”

  “You are good at this.”

  “I know.”

  11

  Nakupenda

  Boots is in the kitchen early. Theo is sleeping.

  “Where’s Jake?”

  “That is a mystery. He’s shut himself in the study. I think he’s painting.”

  “What’s he painting?” I ask.

  “That’s about the one thing I don’t know,” says Boots.

  Suddenly I lean over and kiss Boots.

  “What’s this?” she asks.

  “I like you.”

  “No, you love me,” says Boots.

  George knocks and comes into the kitchen. “Jake called and said he was busy today,” he says.

  “He’s painting,” I say.

  “The car,” we say together.

  “My father is lending me the boat today. Want to
go out? It’s sunny. We’ll take Rafiki. We don’t have more interviews until tomorrow.”

  Boots looks at me. She gives a quick, almost unseen nod. I run upstairs and put on my bathing suit.

  When I come down again, Boots hands me a towel and her beach bag. And when George and I leave the house and I look back, Boots is standing at the door looking after us.

  Rafiki jumps into the boat, happy to be going somewhere. We motor out. There are white clouds in a blue sky.

  The ferry is going out to the mainland. There is a sudden pang in my stomach as I watch it, thinking of the end of summer, of going back to school, of leaving the island.

  George drops the anchor and sits next to me on the bench.

  We don’t say anything. We’ve had a week of words, of interviews.

  And then Rafiki jumps off the boat into the water.

  I stand up.

  “Can he swim?!” I call to George.

  “I’ve never seen that.”

  I run to the stern of the boat and jump in. “Rafiki?”

  George begins to laugh. Rafiki is swimming around me. Suddenly, I feel a cramp in my leg. I try to tread water, but I can’t.

  “What’s wrong, Louisa?”

  “A cramp in my leg.”

  George takes off his shirt and dives into the water beside me. He holds me up.

  “All right, Louisa?” he asks, holding on to me.

  We are very close together, his face close to mine.

  “I think so,” I say.

  We look at each other.

  And then George kisses me.

  Then he leans back.

  “What is this?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper. “But you can do it again.”

  And he does.

  Our bodies are as close as friends can be.

  And to make him feel better, I kiss him back. And we begin to laugh, our lips together, like Jake and Boots laughing while they kiss.

  Rafiki paddles over to nose us, making us laugh more.

  “Is this nakupenda?” asks George suddenly.

  There is shock on his face that he has said it.

  “Like a tablecloth?” I joke, echoing Eliasi’s words about “like” and “love.”

  “No,” says George. “Not like a tablecloth.”

  I burst out laughing and he laughs more.

  And then, because we don’t know what to say, we climb back up on the boat and help Rafiki up.

  Rafiki shakes water off his coat.

  A cool breeze makes me shiver. I dry myself with my towel and hand it to George. We don’t say anything the whole way back to shore except for once.

  “Your curls shine from the sea, Louisiana,” says George.

  Nakupenda.

  When I walk into the kitchen, Boots is alone.

  “Where’s Theo?”

  “Off with Dahlia and Marco.”

  “Where’s Jake?”

  “Still in the study, doing whatever he’s doing.”

  I sit down at the kitchen table.

  “George kissed me,” I say in the stillness of the room.

  “Of course he did,” says Boots.

  I stare at Boots.

  “I kissed him back,” I say as if it is a confession.

  Boots smiles. “Of course you did.”

  I stare at her, a sudden sense of relief coming over me like a soft blanket.

  “Jake and I were in sixth grade when we kissed each other for the first time,” says Boots. She pauses for a moment.

  “It was a sweet beginning,” she adds softly.

  I stare at her across the table.

  “Theo, Dahlia, and Marco will be here soon. You might want to get into dry clothes.”

  I nod. I walk to the stairs and go halfway up, then turn.

  Boots still smiles at her own memories.

  Theo, Dahlia, and Marco come clattering into the kitchen, carrying their paintings. I am startled to see George with them.

  We look at each other, then away.

  Dahlia unrolls her painting of Billie.

  Billie with her muted red hair, her figure soft—several birds at her feet and a titmouse in her hand, with its large staring black iridescent eye.

  “Billie will love this painting,” says Boots.

  Jake comes into the kitchen carrying a large canvas. He peers at the painting.

  “You’ll grow up to be a fine painter,” he tells her.

  He looks at us all.

  “I have a painting of my own,” he says.

  He looks embarrassed. I have never ever seen Jake look embarrassed.

  “The car?” George and I say together for the second time.

  Jake looks at us, amused.

  “More important than the car,” he says.

  Jake turns the canvas around.

  I am stunned.

  It is a painting, hazy, but it is clear to me that it is Boots. You can’t tell her age by the painting. It is almost Boots at all ages, like an impressionist painting. Boots young and older.

  No one says a thing.

  “I wanted to paint Boots as I saw her then and see her now, before my eyes get worse,” says Jake, almost apologetically.

  Jake peers at me.

  “That bad?” he asks.

  “That perfect,” I say.

  “And much more important than your car,” says George.

  “Yes,” says Theo.

  “You’re a painter too,” says Dahlia.

  “Only a painter of Boots,” says Jake.

  “I look perfectly beautiful in this painting,” says Boots.

  “You are perfectly beautiful,” Jake says. “And you were beautiful the day I first kissed you in the eighth grade.”

  “Sixth,” says Boots, laughing.

  George and I look at each other shyly. Theo notices.

  “What’s up with you two?” he asks.

  George shrugs. I shrug.

  Theo turns away.

  12

  Language of the Island

  In the night I find Theo sitting on the top step of the stairs.

  “Are you sick?” I ask.

  Theo shakes his head. In the moonlight I can see tears at the corners of his eyes. I sit next to him and put my arm around him.

  “I don’t want to go home at the end of summer. I want to stay here,” says Theo.

  “I don’t think we can do that.”

  “Why not?” Theo asks me.

  He turns to look at me.

  “Why not?” he says again.

  I sigh. “You know, once Boots told me sometimes something happens to make things right,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  “Sometimes things happen. Like the moon rising at night and the sun in the morning. And things happen to change the things you don’t like.”

  “There’s not much of the summer left,” says Theo. “That ‘something’ better happen soon.”

  “Go back to bed. You can think about it in bed.”

  Theo gets up and goes to his bedroom door. He turns. “Maybe that ‘something’ is me,” he says.

  “Good night, Theo.”

  “Good night, Louisa.”

  Maybe he’s right.

  ELIASI

  Eliasi sits at his kitchen table, his long legs stretched out. Rafiki nuzzles his hand for pats all through our talk.

  “I look very serious and thoughtful in my painting. And that is just the way I am.”

  “You are not,” says George, laughing. “You smile all the time.”

  “Stay out of my interview,” says Eliasi with his great smile. “I was very serious until I met and fell in love with Willa.”

  “Do you like it on this island?” asks Theo.

  “Living here gives me great joy. It reminds me of where I lived in Tanzania. But there it was a very big lake, Lake Tanganyika, the second deepest lake in the world. I could look across the lake and see the Congo. Here it is the sea, and I look across and see the mainland.”

  E
liasi thinks a moment. “I love looking over water,” he says.

  I write that down. George watches me do it.

  Walking over to Angelo’s fishing boat, George taps my shoulder.

  “So, ‘I love looking over water’ is your first line?”

  “Or your first line,” I say to George. “Georgia called you the great writer.”

  “We all know who the real writer is,” says George. “Hmm, or maybe the last line.”

  “Good point,” I say.

  “There’s my father!” says Marco.

  Angelo waves at us from his big fishing boat, tied up at the wharf.

  ANGELO

  We jump onto Angelo’s boat, named Bianca.

  “Why is your boat named Bianca?” asks Dahlia.

  “This is my home away from home. It is Marco’s mother’s name. I like to bring my wonderful wife with me while I fish,” says Angelo.

  “Did you live on the island when you were a little boy?” asks Theo.

  I thought of Theo on the stairs last night, wanting to be a boy living on the island.

  “I came here when I was young,” says Angelo. “I should have learned to read English better, but I spent lots of time fishing with my father. Now that Marco is teaching me, I spend lots of time in the library when I’m not fishing.”

  “I have a library at Jake and Boots’s house,” says Theo happily. “You can come see it anytime and borrow books.”

  “Thank you, Theo. You know something I’ve learned through all the seasons—summers and winters and storms? I’ve learned that the island has a language all its own. And I know that language well.”

  George and I look at each other and write in our notebooks.

  Herring gulls fly over the boat, calling out, then flying on over the stretch of water. A cloud covers the sun, and it is shaded and then bright again as the cloud passes.

  Part of the language of the island.

  I look over at Theo and I know he is thinking the same thing.

  13

  “That Blue”

  Boots had gone shopping with Talking Tillie. She had been off with Talking Tillie on errands many times, sometimes not even coming home with groceries. What is she doing? Jake was gone somewhere too.

  This time it was Theo who disappeared into the painting room, as Jake now called the study. Theo had said nothing about what he was doing.