did you know that Einstein did not or could not speak until he was nine years old?”
“How in the flipping world is that relevant?”
“Maybe I’m a late bloomer like him.”
Chloe smiled. He was being so cute. “Maybe. But the thing that’s actually relevant about Van Gogh is that he painted the Red Vineyard not while standing at the window looking out at it, but solely from his memory and imagination. Take that away and mull it, Einstein.”
Blake took it. He mulled it. “Maybe The Blue Suitcase will be my Red Vineyard,” he said, his own voice deep with longing.
“Or you could try writing something like Breath by Samuel Beckett,” Chloe said, straight-faced. “It’s one of his lesser known plays. It lasts thirty seconds and has no actors and no dialogue.” Her eyes twinkled.
And Blake, bless him, laughed, as Chloe had hoped he might. “Yes!” he exclaimed. “It’s called an intermission.”
And Chloe laughed.
The proctor shushed them. “Mr. Haul, I’ll thank you to keep your voice down.”
“What if I’m a writer?” Blake said to her, lower and leaning in. “I could be a writer, no?”
It must have grated on him that Chloe didn’t think he could do it. And she didn’t even think that. Well, all right, she did. She did think that. But so what? What did it matter what she thought? God.
“Figure out what’s in your suitcase,” she said, “and you will be a writer.”
Blake sat contemplating her. His face was inscrutable.
“What?” She became discomfited. She hated not knowing what people wanted from her. She didn’t like to disappoint.
“What do you think should be in it?”
“It’s your story.”
“But if it was your story.”
Chloe shrugged. “This one lady I deliver Meals on Wheels to, all the way in Jackson, lives in a yellow shed. I’m not kidding, it’s a shed off the main property, which is huge, but the shed is tiny, and it’s painted yellow, and she sits in a chair outside this canary box all day and watches the road, the cars, the walkers. She’s right past the covered bridge to Jackson. She’s ninety-two. She tells me that she prays to Jesus every day that today will not be the day she dies because she wants to be buried with all the jewelry her husband had given her, but she’s afraid her kids will never go for it once she’s dead. She tells me she’s trying to figure out how to get buried alive so she can decide what goes with her. She’d probably put her jewelry into this vanished case.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lupe.”
“I need to meet her ASAP,” Blake said. “Are you and Hannah doing Wheels tomorrow? Mason and I will go with you.”
Chloe didn’t know what to say.
He was so excited, he skipped right over her lying silence. Then it was time to go.
They ran for the late bus, heaved on, said hi to Freddy the thoroughly vetted and tested union driver. Chloe sat next to the window, Blake next to her, their backpacks squeezed between their legs. Freddy waited another minute for stragglers. Chloe spotted Mason still in his baseball uniform, walking down the path from the fields, with a team of catchers and cheer girls flanking him with their pom poms and their camaraderie. He saw the bus, waved to Freddy, yelled something facing the girls while running backward, then turned and sprinted with his gear and school books to the blue bus. In the twenty seconds it took Mason to jump on, Blake had gotten up and moved over one seat. Mason took the vacant spot next to Chloe. Blake sat with his back to the windows, his feet stretched out. He nearly tripped Mason with his sticking-out black Converse hi-tops.
A panting, sweating Mason kissed Chloe. “Sorry I’m all gross,” he said, wiping his face with the sleeve of his jersey.
“No, I like it.” It was nice to feel an exerting Mason wet on her skin. It was only after sports that she felt it.
“Mase, we’re going with the girls tomorrow,” Blake announced. “Meals on Wheels. To get awesome deets for our story.”
Holding Chloe’s hand, Mason shook his head. “No can do, bro. End-of-year varsity barbecue tomorrow. Sorry. But the three of you go. Have a blast.”
Twisting her mouth this way and that, Chloe looked out the window. How does she tell Blake that Hannah hasn’t gone to Meals on Wheels with her in months?
HANNAH’S WHEREABOUTS ON SATURDAY AFTERNOONS WAS explained by none other than Hannah herself who, as soon as they came pounding on her door to tell her about tomorrow, said, Chloe, what are you talking about, I haven’t been doing Wheels with you in months. You know I’ve been working the lunch shift at China Chef, trying to save up for our trip.
Blake’s kinetic gaze slowed down to take in Hannah, and then Chloe for a puzzled moment longer. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me that?” he asked.
“I haven’t done it for a while myself, I forgot,” stammered Chloe, throwing Hannah a rebuke dagger with her eyes.
“What’s the matter with you?” Hannah whispered, dragging her inside the house. “You know I’ve been working most Saturdays.”
“Do I?” Chloe said, pulling her arm away from Hannah and walking back outside. “I thought you were working on Tuesdays too. Shows you what I know.”
At nine the next morning, Blake knocked on her door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Devine. Good morning, Chief.”
“Good morning, Blake,” Jimmy said from the breakfast table, hands around a coffee cup. “How have you been? Looking forward to graduation?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir. Thank you. Very exciting. Yes.” Blake always talked to her father as if about to be arrested.
“Listen, I have a tree by the water that’s rotting, a willow.”
“Say no more. I’ll take it down for you. Do you have power out there?”
“By the lake? No.”
“I’ll bring my axe and my gas-powered chainsaw. Today after I bring Chloe home?”
“Anytime you can, Blake. It’s a big tree, though. If you help me knock it down, you can keep half the wood.”
“Thank you very much. My dad would like that. He gets cold cramps at night.”
“How’s he been?”
“Not too bad. Back keeps bothering him, you know.”
“I know,” Jimmy said, staring into his coffee cup.
“Yeah, well, um. Is Chloe ready?”
Chloe was ready.
Lang pulled her into the vestibule, that is, the very same short hall Blake had taken over with his broad flannel-clad frame. “You two have fun,” Lang said, “but come back before six.”
“Okay,” Chloe drew out. “Wheels is from eleven to one, and you know that, so.” She broke off. “That’s well before six. What’s up?”
“Moody is coming tonight for dinner,” Lang said reverentially, as if announcing the arrival