Becky bends over, leans into Paul's ear. "It's stuffy in here," she says. "Let's go for a walk."
Paul looks up and watches her retreat around the coffee table. He pardons himself to his two bookend sofa-mates – the gregarious Auntie Lou and the diametric Grandma Claire, a stick with permanently down-turned lips and hardened scowl. Paul is relieved to escape her still life painting.
"Let me get rid of my jacket," he says after Becky and pops into the guest room. After tossing it atop the heap of collected shawls and handbags, he catches up. "That's better. It must be pushing ninety."
"I'm glad the sun finally came out," Becky says as they squeeze their way through the branches of their family tree scattered around the vast living room. "I thought that nasty wind would blow all day."
The pair flies out the back screen door like two kids off to play, as they often did three decades ago. They pick their way through the scattering of lawn chairs nesting the post-lunch crowd. The two carefully avoid groups over three and single minglers, not wanting to be dragged into another round of interrogations: "So how's the job?" "Ya seeing anyone?" "Really? A looker like you ought to be able to..."
When Becky and Paul were kids, this was a yearly event. They celebrated Becky and her twin sister Bonnie's birthdays along with their Grandpa Ray's. When the girls became adults, the focus shifted away from them to celebrate the milestones of their aging elder.
"Hey, Becks," Paul says when they disappear into the woods behind the house. "Happy Birthday." He gives his cousin a squeeze around the shoulder and a peck on the cheek. "Not quite the hubbub it used to be, is it?"
"No," Becky responds with a pang of envy. "Thank God."
"Thirty-four." Paul strikes a tragic pose. "Ah, to be so young again."
"Cut it out," Becky laughs. "You were 34 last year."
"Yeah? I guess my mind is failing me now, too."
They walk on autopilot through the woods, having made the journey countless times in their youth, until they come to a creek, still roiling with winter's melt. Across the water and over the next rise spreads a clearing. Hidden among the pines the old playhouse and rusty swing set waits.
Paul follows the shore trying to locate the large step-stones that bridge the crossing. "I guess they're under water."
"Look there," Becky says, pointing upstream. "A fallen tree. Do you dare?"
"Like riding a bike." Paul motions Becky ahead. "Ladies first."
Instead of walking, Becky doubles over in shrieks of laughter.
"What's so funny?" Paul can't decipher what could possibly be so humorous in what he said.
"I just remembered my sixteenth birthday out here. You, Bonnie, and I were way over by Carlson's pasture looking for a place to sneak a smoke and you were trying to convince us that the reason men hold doors open for women and let them go first is so they can cop a peek at their fannies."
"I did not say that," Paul retorts, chuckling now, too.
"You did. I remember it like it was this morning."
Becky steps onto the log and starts across the ten-foot span. Her arms flap and her hips wiggle, but she quickly finds her center and traverses with a gymnast's grace. Halfway over she calls out, "Getting an eyeful?"
Admittedly, his eyes have zeroed in on Becky's subtly striped cotton pants, stretched across her curvy bottom. Becky always had a thing for stripes, for which he is now supremely grateful. Paul loosens his tie and unbuttons his collar. With an explosion of energy, he bounds across the log in four strides, nearly slipping off on the last.
"You're crazy," Becky teases.
"You don't know the half of it."
Becky looks at him intently. "I guess I don't. A lot happens in ten years."
Paul suddenly finds himself at an awkward "Y" in the conversation. It doesn't feel like the right time wallow in the ups and downs of his life since college. Nor can he confess that he's been so eager to see Becky over the last month he has scarcely thought of anything else. "Too bad Bonnie isn't here," he says choosing a neutral path.
"I'd rather be in Hong Kong, too, the lucky shit. I want her job."
"Aw, you're doing alright. You always wanted to be a..."
"Hey," Becky says, "there it is!" She points to the little house glimmering in a pool of sunlight. Large for a playhouse, the eight by twelve, single room structure appears like a fairy tale cottage with wavy, random shingles, a mock chimney, and arched door.
"It's been painted," Paul notices. "And the swing set's new."
"Bonnie said Grandpa Ray had it done when Chucky was born. They'd be all over this place if they were here."
"Just like we were," Paul says.
"Yeah..."
Becky stops to soak in the view and its rich memories. "I'll race ya to the swings," she says suddenly and takes off running.
Paul reacts a second later and passes her in the last 20 yards. He dives at the first swing making the entire apparatus shudder.
"Whoa, big boy," Becky giggles. "You're not the bean pole you used to be."
"Yeah, yeah."
Paul pushes the swing backwards, retracts his landing gear, and soars toward the clouds. Becky follows suit and their two bodies, incongruous in scale and dress, sweep in alternating arcs back through time.
"Do you remember the games we played out here?" Becky asks gleefully. "You, me, Bonnie, sometimes Wally and Sam playing house, and school. And doctor. Not a care in the world."
"Best education I ever had," Paul says scraping his feet in the sand to stop.
"What do you mean?" Becky asks as she flies by. She catches his grin on the next pass. "Oh, yeah. That's what you mean. We were pretty curious weren't we?"
Her face turns a bright scarlet, Paul's just a shade lighter.
"The time I remember the most," Paul begins, "was on your thirteenth birthday..."
"Oh, yes," Becky smiles sheepishly, "I remember that very well."
"You were finally a teenager and we decided to celebrate your passing from childhood to teendom in high style."
"My first beer."
"Yes."
"My first cigarette."
"Yep."
"And my last spanking."
"Uh-huh."
"I couldn't sit comfortably for three days thanks to you and Bonnie," Becky laughs, still swinging.
