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Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
We alternate
stanzas, first Finch, then me, Finch, then me.
Today is your day
.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!
At some point, Finch gets to his feet and starts acting it out. He doesn’t
need the book because he knows the words by heart, and I forget to read
because it’s more fun watching him, even when the words and his voice turn
serious as he recites lines about dark places and useless places and waiting
places, where people don’t do anything but wait.
Then his voice turns light again and he is singing the words.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing
.
He pulls me to my feet.
With banner flip-flapping
,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky
.
The two of us are doing our own version of flip-flapping, which is a kind of
leaping over things—the beanbags, the rug, the other books. We sing the last
lines together—
Your mountain is waiting. So … get on your way!
—and end in
a heap on the floor, candlelight dancing across us, laughing like we’ve lost
our minds.
The only way up the Purina Tower is the steel ladder built into the side, and
there seem to be about twenty-five thousand steps. At the top, we stand—
wheezing like Mr. Black—beside the Christmas tree, which sits planted all
year. Up close, it’s larger than it looks from the ground. Past it, there’s a
wedge of open space, and Finch spreads out the blanket and then we huddle
on top of it, arm to arm, pulling the rest of the cover around us.
He says, “Look.” On all sides of us, spread out below, are little white lights
and black pockets of trees. Stars in the sky, stars on the ground. It’s hard to
tell where the sky ends and the earth begins. I hate to admit it, but it’s
beautiful. I feel the need to say something grand and poetic, but the only thing
I come up with is “It’s lovely.”
“ ‘Lovely’ is a lovely word that should be used more often.” He reaches
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down to cover my foot, which has found its way out of the blanket. “It’s like
it’s ours,” he says.
And at first I think he means the word, but then I know he means the town.
And then I think,
Yes, that’s it. Theodore Finch always knows what to say,
better than I do. He should be the writer, not me
. I feel jealous, just for a
second, of his brain. In this moment, mine feels so ordinary.
“The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it’s the small
things that count. Everyone’s so busy waiting in the Waiting Place. If we
stopped to remember that there’s such a thing as a Purina Tower and a view
like this, we’d all be happier.”
For some reason I say, “I like writing, but I like a lot of things. Maybe out
of those things, I’m best at writing. Maybe it’s what I like best of all. Maybe
it’s where I’ve always felt most at home. Or maybe the writing part of me is
over. Maybe there’s something else I’m supposed to do instead. I don’t
know.”
“There’s a built-in ending to everything in the world, right? I mean, a
hundred-watt lightbulb is designed to last seven hundred and fifty hours. The
sun will die in about five billion years. We all have a shelf life. Most cats can
live to be fifteen, maybe longer. Most dogs make it to twelve. The average
American is designed to last twenty-eight thousand days after birth, which
means there’s a specific year, day, and time to the minute when our lives will
end. Your sister’s happened to be eighteen. But if a human was to avoid all
life-threatening diseases and infections and accidents, he—or she—should
live to be a hundred and fifteen.”
“So you’re saying I may have reached my built-in ending to writing.”
“I’m saying you have time to decide.” He hands me our official wandering
notebook and a pen. “For now, why not write things down where no one will
see it? Write it on a piece of paper and stick it on the wall. Of course, for all I
know, you may suck at it.” He laughs as he dodges away from me, and then
he pulls out an offering—the Bookmarks napkins, the half-burned candle, a
matchbook, and a lopsided macramé bookmark. We lock them into a flat
Tupperware container he’s confiscated from his house and leave it sitting out
in plain view for the next person who comes here. Then he’s up and standing
at the edge, where only a knee-high metal guardrail keeps him from falling to
the ground.
He throws his arms out over his head, fists clenched, and shouts: “Open
your eyes and look at me! I’m right bloody here!” He shouts all the things he
hates and wants to change until his voice is hoarse. Then he nods over at me.
“Your turn.”
I join him at the edge, but he’s farther out than I am, as if he doesn’t care
whether he falls off. I take hold of his shirt without him noticing, as if that
will save him, and instead of looking down, I look out and up. I think of all
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the things I want to shout:
I hate this town! I hate winter! Why did you die?
This last thought is directed at Eleanor.
Why did you leave me? Why did you
do this to me?
But instead I stand there holding on to Finch’s shirt, and he looks down at
me and shakes his head, and in a moment he starts singing Dr. Seuss again.
This time I join him, and our voices drift together across the sleeping town.
When he drives me home, I want him to kiss me good night, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he strolls backward to the street, hands shoved in pockets, eyes on
me. “Actually, Ultraviolet, I’m pretty sure you don’t suck at writing.” He says
it loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.
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