Excerpt:

It isn't my story, I'm just the one who's telling it.

She lived next door, she and her sister. When I was seventeen they moved in. Being a bookish, poetic type, or hoping to become a bookish poetic type – at seventeen I was too amorphous to be anything – regardless, when they moved in I saw them as light and dark, day and night, sun and moon.

Strangely, and completely ruining my metaphor, Deanna, whose meaning is “bright as day” was dark haired, her skin was dusky rose, and her eyes deep chestnut – like dark rum or the mahogany stained wood in my Grandmother's house. Her sister, Melanie, who was pale to the point of translucency, bore a name meaning “time of darkness”.

Perhaps their parents had gotten them confused, although they weren't twins. Or, like the parents of Tock in “The Phantom Tollbooth” they simply chose unwisely. Whatever the case, De loved the sun. She would lie out at the slightest provocation that the sun might shine. Melanie would occasionally sit on the miniature patio, out of direct sunlight, basking in reflection. For the most part, she remained indoors, or drove off in her third hand car with the tinted windows to do who knew what.

They were older than me, the sisters. De was twenty-three when they moved in, and Mel twenty-one. Seven years can be a generation when you're seventeen. De found me: “too cute” (her words), and asked if I wanted to help move their furniture the day they arrived. Mel sneered. I was too close to her age, too childish, and she was fleeing from childish things as hard as she could.

I, enthralled by De's long, raven wing hair, nodded. I barely glanced at Mel. Beside her sister she looked washed out, a poorly developed photo. Despite their difference in coloring, they looked very alike. Their hair sprouted from a widow's peak of exactly the same shape (slightly thinner on the left) and hung straight, until Mel cut her's short and took to temporary perms or gelled spikes. Both had a long straight nose, gently rounded at the end, a stone smoothed by time. Mel's eyes were a lighter brown, but spaced as wide set as De's, and just as large. High, sharp cheek bones defined the planes of their faces. De smiled more than Mel, her lips were always curving slightly upward, where Mel's most often dropped into a noncommittal line. Neither had dimples.

After I had lugged one end of a couch, two beds, dressers, kitchen table, and a massive ancient chest De offered me a beer.

“He's just a kid De, you can't give him that.” Melanie grabbed the can and opened it for herself.

“You drank when you were his age.” De said, calmly.

“That was me.”

“It's fine.” I said, “I'd rather water anyway.” I wiped my face on the hem of my tee shirt. It was old, faded, and bore the flaking image of a woman in a tattered leather bikini holding a skull. I wished I had put something else on that morning. Something newer. Something less embarrassing. Melanie kept glaring at it.

“There's OJ, or I think we have some root beer in the car.”

Root beer. God, I felt suddenly like an eight year old. Like Deanna was seeing me as an eight year old. “Water's great.” I turned on the tap. It rumbled and sputtered. De made a funny half-strangled yelp and stepped back. Melanie rolled her eyes.

I turned the tap off, then gently turned it back on, a mere trickle. “There's air in the pipes. I should have realized.” I kept my eyes on the thin stream of water. The pipes clunked and sputtered, but not as violently. “I forgot. This place has been empty for awhile, so they must have shut the water off and only turned it back on when you signed the lease or something.”

“Well, obviously.” Melanie said.

“Mel, be nice. I wouldn't have known that. I would have called a plumber or the rental guy.”

“You would have hidden under the bed until I fixed it.” She turned and stomped out. Once she reached the other end of the house she yelled back, “and tell your boyfriend the TV needs to be put on the stand, not just next to it.”

I blushed, but didn't look away from the tap.

“Don't mind her. We needed a break, and the TV isn't going to run off if it isn't perched on the stand.”

I smiled. “Right, because then you'd need to chain it up, or put it in a cage, and it would be harder to watch.”

Her smile faded. “I don't like the idea of chaining things up. Not even things.”

“Well,” I floundered, “it's a good thin the TV likes you enough to stay on it's own then.”

“Mel likes the TV. I don't care one way or another. She'd say I left the TV there on purpose, if you weren't here, and we'd get into some horrible argument over what's more important.” She shook her head, and her hair floated out like a mermaid's.

“You fight a lot?”

“Oh, no.” She looked away. “It's just been a long drive out here. We've been couped up together in a small space too long.”

“My sister's fight all the time.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling fully again, “how old?”

The conversation turned to Katie and Tina, my family, the neighborhood. Things I imagined adults would talk about. Where the grocery store was and the best place to get donuts and really good fresh bread (both could be had at the bakery half a mile away, near the duck pond at Toe's). After I finished with the pipes and drank a two glasses of water (De had to dig through a box to find a glass, then insisted on washing it – I felt I needed to match her efforts) we went back into the living room. Melanie was on the floor, flinging packing material all over and stacking the packed items next to her. I could see picture frames, all turned face down, and what looked like a lamp shade. The rest of her horde was obscured by the bubble wrap.

“OK, how should we do this?” De said, hands on hips, surveying the TV and stand.

“Your boyfriend looks pretty strong, I'm she he can lift it.” Melanie said.

“It's not balanced right for one person.” De spoke with that absent voice a parent uses when they know you're being a jerk on purpose for the attention and they're dammed if they're going it give it to you. “How about I take this side and you take the other, Greg.”

I nodded and got on one knee, thinking it would be easier to lift this way then from a squat. Melanie started to laugh as soon as I bent. “Oh, look, Dede, your swain is proposing.” She said it with malicious glee, as if she knew, not just guessed, how I would react.

My face blazed. My hands broke into a sweat and became so slick I knew there was no chance of my gripping the TV, or anything else. I stood back and tried to deny what was so obviously my intense embarrassment.

“Greg?”

It was my father. I'd never been so outrageously glad to hear his voice.

“I have to,” I stammered and practically ran out the door. “Yeah?” I said to my father, once I had him in my sight.

“Where were you?”

I jerked my head to the house behind me. “Helping the neighbors move in.”

He scanned the street. No mover's truck, just a van and rented trailer. I felt the air move behind me and saw my father's eyes widen. “Oh, Gregie, is this your Dad?” Mel said, cooing near my ear.

“Dad, this is Melanie Hunter. My father, Anthony Warner.”

“How sweet.” Mel said and pushed past me to shake my father's hand. “Greg has been soo helpful. I think the TV's beaten him though.”

That was bullshit. The TV hadn't walked in from the car on it's own.

Deana came past, trailing a hand on my shoulder, like a balm. I relaxed. “Dad, this is Deana.” She continued past me and greeted my father, who introduced himself.

“Greg's been helping us out. We never could have done this without him. I hope it's OK,” she smiled, a sort of half apology, “that he was here.”

“Fine. Not a problem. I hope he's been behaving.”

I groaned. Thanks Dad.

Melanie smirked, “he's been just oodles of help, haven't you Greg?”

I nodded.

“He's been telling us about the neighborhood, and your family.” De said.

“Only the good things, I hope.” Dad laughed, in that false grownup way, over a lame joke.

“He's very observant.” De said, ignoring the faux joke, “I'll bet you'd be impressed at the things he's noticed. Of course, his name does mean 'vigilant'.”

Which is where I acquired the habit of matching meanings to names.

“It does,” my father said. “We just called him after an Uncle of my wife's.”

“Your name means 'greatly esteemed',” De continued. “I find names very important.”

“She's an artiste.” Mel said.

“I'm not really. I'm just interested in that sort of thing.”

“And I,” said Mel, “am interested in getting the TV off the floor. It's in the way, and we still have a lot of unpacking to do.”

“Well, let's see if I can help with that. Come on Greg, I'm sure the TV is no match for two burly men.”

I tried to smile. I had wanted to keep Deana and Melanie for myself, just a little while. Once Mom and Dad got into the act, the line of adult and kid would shift, with me on the kid side. At least Dad hadn't gone all “Dad”. He didn't scold me for not telling him where I was. He didn't lecture me on the evils of going into a stranger's home. He would later, but he had the grace to refrain from doing it in public.

We heaved the TV off the floor and onto the stand in one swift move. Mel fawned over us both, calling us 'strong boys'. Dad ate it up. From the perspective of my forties, I can see how being called a 'boy' could be desirable. At seventeen, it was less so.

There was little of the heavy lifting left to do. Dad and I helped to rearrange the bureaus and Dad fetched a hammer so they could hang some of the pictures right away. They weren't photos, as I first guessed. They were paintings. Small paintings, maybe five by seven, or six by eight. The frames were simple wood, lightly stained or varnished. The subjects would have looked out of place in gaudier settings. They were simple, stylistic renderings of animals. I recognized orca, eagles, bears, and what I first took to be a crow, but found out later was a raven.

“These are quite interesting. Who is the artist?” My father asked, holding the bear up against the wall while Deana contemplated the spot.

“De.” Her sister said simply.

“You painted them?” Dad said. I wished he hadn't sounded so surprised. I wouldn't have been surprised if Mel told me that De had personally supervised the placement of the stars in the sky.

“They're not very good.” She said.

“They are too.” I said.

Mel smirked and shook her head at me. “Another conquest, De.”

“I like them. Isn't that what art is about?”

“Art,” Mel said, “is about sustaining culture. It's about the continuation of abstract fundamentals.”

“And if it's ugly and no one wants to look at it, you're out of luck.” I said.

De smiled at me. “You really like them?”

“They're cool. They look Indian, I mean, Native American.”

“They are. These are totem animals. These are the beings that gave us our culture, the rules we live by. They protect us, and teach us, and punish us as needed. Just like parents, I guess.” She finished with a laugh.

“Are you,” Dad started, then hesitated, “is your family...”

“Our Grandmother was and our Great-great Grandfather was a . We're fairly watered down, about 12% and 25% . We lived with our Grandmother in the summers, and she taught us some of what she knew.”

“What she remembered. She only lived with her people until she was married. Then it was all Grampy's family. They made her to everything their way.” Mel added.

“She remembered a lot. And she only did what the Aunts wanted when they were looking. She still kept her own ways.”

Dad hammered the nail in and hung the Bear portrait. “It sounds fascinating. Once you get settled you should come to dinner. I'm sure my wife would be interested to hear about your history.”

Deana touched my shoulder, “Greg, if you really like the portraits, I might be able to paint one for you.”

Dad laughed, “you don't need my permission.”

“No, I'd need the permission of the animal I painted. I'd need a dream first, to know what to paint. I can't just,” she blushed.

“Women aren't supposed to paint them at all. Why worry about permission?”

“I can paint. I just have to follow the rules. If you like, Greg, I will ask for a dream and paint for you if I can.”

“I, yeah, thanks. That would be great.” I didn't know what to say. I was all fireworks and frenzy inside. She wanted to paint for me.

“No promises. We'll see what happens.”

“Sure. Thanks, I mean, even if you don't, um, get permission, it's cool that you offered.”

Dad patted my shoulder. “Well intentioned, if not well spoken. Now, ladies, I fear I have to confiscate your helper and send him back to my wife. She has some work for him as well.” He pulled a face at me. Chores. Like a little kid, he was reminding me that I had neglected my chores.