The Children(17)

She hadn’t told Ennis what she’d heard through their parents’ bedroom door. She’d never had a secret before. Now she had a whole buzzing, stinging armful.

Abruptly he said, “We have to do something about Dad.”

Guinevere looked up, more relieved than surprised. This happened all the time, her brother speaking the thoughts out of her head. According to Llewellyn, she hadn’t said a word before age three. Why would you? You had Ennis to talk for you.

“He’s not happy,” Ennis went on. “He wants to be an actor again and Mom won’t let him.”

His face was stern; it usually was. It was her face, too: horizontal lines of brow and bottom lip, fat violin curves of the upper. Their eyes blue like Llewellyn’s.

She loved her brother’s eyes. She loved his face. She wanted him happy, which was why she was keeping all these secrets. If only she could ask him whether this was the right thing to do!

Then she had an idea. “Why don’t we put on plays here? Like Dad said, remember?” She was getting excited. “He said we would be a good, a good . . .”

“Sebastian and Viola, yeah. You know he was just saying that, right?” Ennis spoke gently. “Like he always just says stuff? It’s fun to pretend, but it isn’t real.”

“It’s not?”

“Guinevere.” He held her elbows and looked at her straight, the way he did when he wanted to mesmerize her into doing whatever he said. It always worked. “He has to go back to the city and do real plays. He’s only staying here because of us.”

“But . . .” Her nose was running. She didn’t want to sniffle, he’d think she was crying. “He should stay because of us. Shouldn’t he?”

Ennis wore no shirt. His body was an in-between thing, all lanky limbs and knobby bits: knees, elbows, ankle bones. A newly prominent Adam’s apple interrupted the line of his throat. “Dad was famous. Until he married Mom. She got jealous and made him quit.”

Guinevere thought about this. It seemed to her both right and wrong. She considered telling him about the promise Llewellyn made Edith, that they’d stay for a year, but that might shake loose the secret hiding beneath it. “I think Mom wants to be famous, too.”

“Famous for what? Being mean?”

“She told Dad she wants to write a book.”

“A book? When did she say that?”

“I don’t know,” Guinevere said swiftly. “But I don’t want to go back to New York. I love living here, I don’t want to leave.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll come back. Even if Mom tries to stop us. We don’t have to live in her house.” He jerked a thumb toward their pile of sticks. “That’s why we’re building our own.”

Ennis was a deep one. He’d never hinted at the sticks’ purpose before, only waited to drop it on her when it would have the most impact. It also had the effect of startling her into saying it. The worst secret.

“Dad has other kids.”

The words slipped out like watermelon seeds. For a moment she felt relief. Then she saw his face.

In a dull voice, he said, “What?”

He hadn’t known. She realized she’d expected him to roll his eyes and say, Duh, but he hadn’t known. The depth of her error was instantly clear. Over a dry throat, she said, “I heard Mom say it. She said he already has two kids he doesn’t see. If he goes to the city—what if he doesn’t come back? What if he doesn’t see us anymore?”

Ennis’s face contorted, his mouth folded and shook. He straightened. Then he stalked forward and punched her in the chest. “You’re lying.”

He’d never hurt her before. Not on purpose. Before she could react, he was gone, pelting toward the house.

When her breath came back, Guinevere screamed. With her strong scratched-up arms she broke a perfect stick over one knee. Then another and another. Her knee was bleeding and she regretted the broken sticks and it was all Ennis’s fault and she hated him.

She stayed in the woods until she wished she were home, then a while longer to spite him. When she finally set off, all the gold had rubbed off the day. Wind traced patterns in the darkening green and night sounds were rising. She drew her arms inside her shirt.

It was clear within minutes she was lost. She kept going with her head high, in case Ennis could somehow see it. If she couldn’t find the house, she’d find the road. If she couldn’t find the road, she’d find a town, and have so much fun there Ennis would regret missing out forever.

In truth the idea frightened her, opened into a pop-up vision of an Old West thoroughfare stocked with violent strangers. Weeks had passed since she’d seen any but her family’s faces.

The first stars were out when help emerged like a dream from the gloaming. Standing at the end of a tunnel of trees, parted curtain of pop-star fur hanging around her face, the caretaker’s red-furred dog. She barked once before turning and trotting away. Guinevere followed.

She might have followed a wolf right then if it showed the initiative. Her rational bit was curled up and sleeping. She was little, not quite six. Like a puppy or a duckling, she went along.

Clouds scudded fast over the moon, so it dimmed and disappeared like the dot at the center of an old TV. The dog didn’t lead her to the house or the road, but to a tidy cabin. Even by twilight you could tell it was made of a russet-stained wood.