Walk Two Moons - Quia



20

THE BLACKBERRY KISS

THAT NIGHT I TRIED TO WRITE THE MINI JOURNAL for Mr. Birkway. First I made a list of all the things I liked, and they were all things from Bybanks -- the trees, the cows, the chickens, the pigs, the fields, the swimming hole. It was a complete jumble of things, and when I tried to write about any one of those things, I ended up writing about my mother, because everything was connected to her. At last, I wrote about the blackberry kiss.

One morning when I awoke very early, I saw my mother walking up the hill to the barn. Mist hung about the ground, finches were singing in the oak tree beside the house, and there was my mother, her pregnant belly sticking out in front of her. She was strolling up the hill, swinging her arms and singing:

Oh, don't fall in love with a sailor boy,

A sailor boy, a sailor boy

Oh, don't fall in love with a sailor boy,

'Cause he'll take your heart to sea

As she approached the corner of the barn where the sugar maple stands, she plucked a few blackberries from a stray bush and popped them into her mouth. She looked all around her-back at the house, across the fields, and up into the canopy of branches overhead. She took several quick steps up to the trunk of the maple, threw her arms around it, and kissed that tree soundly.

Later that day, I examined this tree trunk. I tried to wrap my arms about it, but the trunk was much bigger than it had seemed from my window. I looked up at where her mouth must have touched the trunk. I probably imagined this, but I thought I could detect a small dark stain, as from a blackberry kiss.

I put my ear against the trunk and listened. I faced that tree squarely and kissed it firmly. To this day, I can smell the smell of the bark-a sweet, woody smell-and feel the ridges in the bark, and taste that distinctive taste on my lips.

In my mini journal, I confessed that I had since kissed all different kinds of trees, and each family of trees -- oaks, maples, elms, birches-had a special flavor all its own. Mixed in with each tree's own taste was the slight taste of blackberries, and why this was so, I could not explain.

The next day, I turned in this story to Mr. Birkway. He didn't read it or even look at it, but he said, "Marvelous! Brilliant!" as he slipped it into his briefcase. "I'll put it with the other journals."

Phoebe said, "Did you write about me?" Ben said, "Did you write about me?'"

Mr. Birkway bounded around the room as if the opportunity to teach us was his notion of paradise. He read a poem by e. e. cummings titled "the little horse is newlY" and the reason why the only capital letter in the title is the Y at the end of newlY is because Mr. Cummings liked to do it that way.

"He probably never took, English," Phoebe said.

To me that Y looked like the newly born horse standing up on his thin legs.

The poem was about a newlY born horse who doesn’t know anything but feels everything. He lives in a "smoothbeautifully folded" world. I liked that. I was not sure what it was, but I liked it. Everything sounded soft and safe.

That day, Phoebe left school early for a dentist appointment. I started walking home alone, but Ben joined me. I was completely unprepared for what happened on the way home, and for what would happen later. Ben and I were simply walking along and he said, "Did anyone ever read your palm ?"

"No."

"I know how to do it," he said. "Want me to read yours?" He took my hand and stared at it for the longest time. His own hand was soft and warm. Mine was sweating like crazy. He was saying, "Hm" and tracing the lines of my palm with his finger. It gave me the shivers, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. The sun was beating down on us, and I thought it might be nice to stay there forever with him just running his finger along my palm like that. I thought about the newlY born horse who knows nothing and feels everything. I thought about the smoothbeautifully folded world. Finally, Ben said, "Do you want the good news first or the bad news?"

"The bad news. It isn't real bad, is it?"

He coughed. 'The bad news is that I can't really read palms." (I snatched my hand away.) "Don't you want to know the good news?" he asked. (I started walking.) "The good news is that you let me hold your hand for almost five minutes and you didn't flinch once."

I didn't know what to make of him. He walked me all the way to my house, even though I refused to speak to him. He waited on the porch until I was ready to go to Phoebe's, and then he walked me to her house.

When I knocked at Phoebe's door, Ben said, "I'll be going now." I took a quick look at him and turned back to the door, but in that instant that I was turning my head, he leaned forward, and I do believe his lips kissed my ear. I was not sure this was what he intended. In fact, I was not sure it happened at all, because before I knew it, he had hopped down the steps and was walking away.

The door inched open and there was Phoebe's round face, as white and frightened as ever you could imagine. "Quick," she said. "Come in." She led me into the kitchen. On the kitchen table was an apple pie, and beside it were three envelopes: one for Phoebe, one for Prudence, and one for their father.

"I opened my note," Phoebe said, showing it to me. It said, Keep all the doors locked and call your father if you need anything. I love you, Phoebe. It was signed, Mom.

I didn't think too much of it. "Phoebe-" I said.

"I know, I know. It doesn't sound terrible or anything. In fact, my first thought was, ‘Well, good. She knows I am old enough to be here by myself.’

I figured she was out shopping or maybe she even decided to return to work, even though she wasn't supposed to go back to Rocky's Rubber until next week. But then Prudence came home and opened her note."

Phoebe showed me the note left for Prudence. It said, Please heat up the spaghetti sauce and boil the spaghetti. I love you, Prudence. It was signed, Mom.

I still didn't think too much of it, but Phoebe was suspicious. Prudence made the spaghetti, while I helped Phoebe set the table. Phoebe and I even made a salad. "I do feel sort of independent," Phoebe said.

When Phoebe's father came home, Phoebe showed him his note. He opened it and sat down, staring at the piece of paper. Phoebe looked over his shoulder and read his note aloud: I had to go away. I can't explain. I'll call you in a few days.

I had a sinking, sinking feeling.

Prudence started asking a million questions. 'What does she mean? Go away where? Why can't she explain? Why didn't she tell you? Did she mention this? A few days? Where did she go?"

“Maybe we should call the police," Phoebe said. “I think she was kidnapped or something."

“Oh, Phoebe," Mr. Winterbottom said..

"I'm serious," she said. “Maybe a lunatic came in the house and dragged her off-"

“Phoebe, that is not funny."

“I'm not being funny. I mean it. It could happen."

Prudence was still asking her questions. 'Where did she go? Why didn't she mention this? Didn't she tell you? Where did she go?"

“Prudence, I honestly cannot say," her father said.

“I think we should call the police," Phoebe repeated.

“Phoebe, if she was kidnapped, would the lunatic - as you say - allow her to sit down and write these notes? Mm?"

He stood up, removed his coat, and said, “Let's eat.”

As I left, Phoebe said, “My mother has disappeared. Sal, don't tell anyone. Don't tell a soul:'

At horne, my father was slumped over the photo album. He used to close the album quickly when I came in the room, as if he were embarrassed to be caught with it. Lately, however, he didn't bother to close it. It was as if he didn't have the strength to do that.

On the opened page was a photo of my father and mother sitting in the grass beneath the sugar maple. His arms were around her and she was sort of folded into him. His face was pressed up next to hers and their hair blended together. They looked like they were connected.

"Phoebe's mother went away," I said.

He looked up at me.

"She left some notes. She says she's coming back, but I don't believe it."

I went upstairs and tried to work on my mythology report. My father came to the doorway and said, "People usually come back"

Now I can see that he was just talking in general, just trying to be comforting, but then-that night-what I heard in what he said was the tiniest reassurance of something I had been thinking and hoping. I had been praying that a miracle would happen and my mother would come back and we would return to Bybanks and everything would be exactly as it used to be.

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