Navigating Early by Clare Vanderpool
“Cannot.”
“Can too.”
Probably later.
The story of Pi seemed to be one that could conjure up a lot of different memories and connections. Pi’s story was a journey, like that of Fisher. But as Early talked this time of Pi being hurt and losing his way, it reminded me of someone else. During the ride home, I glanced sideways at my dad and noticed for the first time the worry lines on his face. He wasn’t in uniform, and his body seemed to relax without the weight of his medals and brass. I thought about the way he had clung to me when Early and I returned to Morton Hill—like a sailor who’d been washed overboard and found a life preserver to hold on to. Could it be that my father, the navigator, had been washed overboard and lost his bearings, just like me?
I could imagine my navigator ring at the bottom of the river, and I was sorry I’d thrown it in. But I also knew I didn’t need a navigator ring to find my bearings.
When we were back on campus at Morton Hill, my dad gave Early a warm handshake.
“You did a fine job back there, son,” my father said. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you were talking about, but you seemed to have all your i’s dotted and t’s crossed.”
Early smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Early passed me on his way back to his workshop. “I don’t think your dad was paying attention,” he said in a whisper that was loud and clear. “There weren’t any i’s or t’s in the equation.”
My dad shook his head as Early walked away. Then he leaned against the jeep and crossed his arms. It felt like when he’d talked to Fisher. Easy and open. Like he’d just taken a deep breath and was letting the words exhale out instead of holding them back.
“I should never have brought you so far from home,” he said. “I guess I just didn’t know what to do. Imagine that. I give umpteen commands all day long and navigate a ship all over the ocean, and I couldn’t figure out what step to take next.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jack, about packing up all of your mom’s stuff. I just thought if I could put things in order, if I could make things right—but I couldn’t.”
He raised his face to the sun for a long minute. “Well, what do you say? Maybe it’s time to pull up anchor and head home.”
I leaned up against the jeep, next to him, and crossed my arms. “I don’t know. I don’t mind it here. And, see, the thing is, I sort of wrecked a boat a while back.” I raised my face to the sun. “You want to help me build a new one?”
EPILOGUE
Connecting the dots. That’s what Mom said stargazing is all about. It’s the same up there as it is down here, Jackie. You have to look for the things that connect us all. Find the ways our paths cross, our lives intersect, and our hearts collide.
Once I started paying attention, I noticed all kinds of crossings, intersections, and collisions. For one, Fisher showed great improvement under the watchful care of a certain young candy striper at the local hospital. She had curly red hair and green eyes and answered to the name of Pauline. But that was only because that’s what Early had called her the first time we met her at the Bear Knuckle Inn, and she thought it was prettier than her real name, which was Ethel. She took Fisher for long walks and even held his hand, which hardly shook anymore.
Then there was Gunnar’s letter to his sweetheart, Emmaline. Gunnar had given me that letter, asking me to do what he couldn’t bring himself to do—mail the letter. So I did mail it, with my address on the envelope, just in case. It came back with a handwritten note that said Return to Sender. Apparently Emmaline had moved on. So the letter went back into the little rose-colored book of poetry in my desk for some time, where it would have stayed indefinitely, had I not chosen Hopkins as the topic of my famous poet essay and had I not acquired some of Early’s deductive reasoning skills of putting two and two together. Although, with Early’s method, it was more like putting together two and two plus a pinch of this and a dash of that.
It happened one day in the library. I had to write a paper on a famous poet, and being familiar with Gunnar’s fire-folk, I chose Hopkins. Miss B. said she might have just the thing. She reached into her desk and pulled out a very old-looking book. It was a collection of poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins. She told me I might look at the volume in the library but could not check it out, as it had been a gift to her.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. Taking the book to an open table, I glanced at the inside cover. In a masculine hand, it read: To E. from G. Christmas 1928. The date rang a bell. Gunnar had given a book of poetry to Emmaline for Christmas. Had it been in 1928? I took the Journal of Poetry by Young Americans from my book bag and studied the name on the envelope. Emmaline Bellefleur. Inching my way closer to Miss B.’s desk, I hoped to spy something with her full name on it.
She looked up from her work. “Can I help you, Mr. Baker?”
“Um, this is a very nice book,” I said, handing it back to her. “Do you have a favorite poem?”
She looked surprised by the question and seemed to catch her breath. “Well, yes, I do,” she said softly. “I have a special fondness for ‘The Starlight Night’—all that talk of stars and fire-folk and circle-citadels.” She seemed to get lost for a moment in the poem or in her memory.
I carefully lifted the letter and said, “I think this is for you, Miss Bellefleur.”
She looked at the handwriting on the envelope, then back at me with tears in her eyes. I didn’t stick around to watch her read it, but I knew I wouldn’t be surprised if Gunnar Skoglund showed up on the grounds of Morton Hill Academy in the near future.
Then there was Archibald MacScott. The night of the cave, and the snakebite, and Early’s seizure, and a million other things, Fisher had gone back to the site of the bear attack to bury a second body—MacScott’s—but the one-eyed man and the 1894 Winchester were gone. There was a good deal of blood on the ground that led away from the site, but the trail ended at the river.
We’d thought the bear had killed him right there on the spot. But in light of this new evidence, Early thought maybe MacScott had wanted to have a proper burial at sea, so he had mustered what little life he’d had left to drag himself to the closest body of water and dropped dead as he plunged into the river. Then Early thought better of it and decided that the Winchester, which had been the great burden of MacScott’s life, had become too heavy to bear and maybe he’d just bent to drink from the river but the gun’s weight had pulled him to a watery death. Early seemed to find both scenarios equally gruesome and interesting and never declared which he liked best.
Back at school, the boys of Morton Hill Academy were always eager to hear the tale of Early’s and my journey. As I told it, over and over, I realized what an adventure it had been. Who would have thought a motion-sick kid from Kansas would have embarked on a journey that included pirates, a volcano, a great white whale, a hundred-year-old woman, a lost hero, a hidden cave, a great Appalachian bear, and a timber rattlesnake—in Maine!
My mom was right. Our stories are all intertwined. It’s just a matter of connecting the dots. I keep looking for her to pop up somewhere in this story. To somehow, mysteriously, be a part of the connections, intersections, and collisions. I keep feeling that I should have something more than just the broken fragments of her teacup tucked away in a box in my closet. But I know Elaine Gallagher Baker, the civilian; she’ll turn up somewhere. And when she does, I’ll hear her say, There are no coincidences. Just miracles by the boatload. In the meantime, I have a piece of paper on my wall. It’s a drawing of my own constellation, with stars named Dad, Gunnar, Miss B., Fisher, Martin, Eustasia Johannsen, Early, and me—Jackie Baker. With a red pencil, I connected each star. And not so coincidentally, it formed the shape of a teacup with little red flowers.
As for Early—in the weeks following our journey he was invited for pie in Sam and Robbie Dean’s room once in a while. And he even showed up for class once in a great while, especially after Mr. Blane quit talking about pi ending. But he preferred to stay a little off the beaten
Early Auden could not keep the ocean out. I figured he realized this too, because on a walk down to the shore one day, not long after our Appalachian trek, Early started opening his stacked sandbags, emptying them onto the beach. I asked him if he’d given up trying to keep the ocean out. He said he was never trying to. He’d been using the sandbags to build a lighthouse, where he planned to raise a great bonfire so that Fisher could find his way home. Semper Fi, Early. Semper Fi.
I stood on the shore that day, with the salt water pushing closer to me with every wave, and recalled how, just a few months before, I had stood on this same spot, so disoriented I’d thrown up. I marveled at the vastness of the ocean. I stood in awe of its depth and mystery. And I realized I was equally in awe of Early Auden. Yes, he was strange. Yes, he could be maddening. And yes, he was my friend.
As the ocean tugged at my feet, I realized that Early Auden, that strangest of boys, had saved me from being swept away. By teaching me how to build a boat, that numbers tell stories, and that when it’s raining, it’s always Billie Holiday.
The Journal of Poetry
by Young Americans—1928
2ND-PRIZE WINNER
The Beauty of a Single Star
by Elaine Gallagher
Abilene, Kansas
The stars in their courses
illuminate and guide,
for voyagers and wayfarers
to seek far and wide.
But before Pleiades and Orion,
Before minors and majors,
They were just stars in their courses,
Singing their praises.
In one star alone is beauty enough
For awe and splendor and wonder
To lift up one’s eyes, with arms outstretched,
And gracefully, humbly stand under.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The idea for the story that became Navigating Early came to me several years ago when my mom told me about a vivid dream she’d had of a young man with an extreme talent for playing the piano. In her dream, the young man had no training but could play even the most difficult piece after hearing it just once. Her dream was more about a friendship between this young man and a young woman. But the idea of writing a story about someone with an unexplainable gift stayed in my head. What would that person’s gift be? How would it affect the rest of his life?
My first order of business was research, so I read a book by Daniel Tammet called Born on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant. In it, Daniel tells his story of growing up with autism and the amazing ways his mind works. He can perform extraordinary calculations in his head. He memorized more than 22,000 digits of pi. And he sees numbers as shapes, colors, and textures. His story was a springboard to that of Early Auden.
By our standards today, Early might be diagnosed with a high-functioning form of autism. He would also be considered a savant, a person who exhibits extraordinary ability in a highly specialized area, such as mathematics or music. I chose not to use the terms autism or savant in the book because most people in 1945 would have been unfamiliar with them, and most people with autism would have been undiagnosed. A person like Early would have just been considered strange.
Early is not meant to be a representation of the autistic child. He is a unique and special boy with an amazing mind, a beautiful spirit, and an unexplainable gift. Like Daniel Tammet, he sees the number pi in shapes, colors, and textures. But as Early developed in my mind and in the story, I realized that his amazing gift went even further. To him, the numbers in pi also tell a story.
That brings up the next area of research. Pi.
Irrational. Transcendental. Eternal. Those are all words that describe the number pi. But people—who have been fascinated by the number for thousands of years—also use words like beautiful, mystical, holy. How can a number have conjured up such imagery and even controversy over the centuries?
Early Auden has savant abilities in mathematics. He can perform extraordinary calculations in his head. He calms himself and organizes his thoughts with patterns and sequence, sorting by color and quantity. And for him, the number pi is the most special and beautiful of numbers, and that number tells a special and beautiful story.
In my story there is, of course, a certain amount of fact alongside a fair amount of fiction. So, because I am a game-show lover, let’s play a game called:
PI: FACT OR FICTION?
Fact or Fiction: Pi is a never-ending, never-repeating number.
A: Fact. Pi is an irrational number, which means it cannot be written as a fraction. Its decimal numbers will never repeat in any sort of pattern and they will never reach an end.
Fact or Fiction: The sequences of numbers mentioned in Navigating Early are real sequences found in the number pi.
A: Fiction. The number pi does start with 3.14, but the sequences I mention in the book are fictional. If they do exist in the number pi, it is purely coincidental.
Fact or Fiction: The numbers in pi really tell a story.
A: Fiction. I made that part up, but who knows? If a person can see numbers as shapes, colors, or textures, maybe someone else sees them in other amazing ways.
Fact or Fiction: Someone once found a mistake in the numbers in pi, as Early does in the story.
A: Fact. In 1945, D. F. Ferguson found a mistake in a previously calculated value of pi from the 527th place onward. In my story Early happens to find the mistake first. But Early is a fictional character, so Mr. Ferguson deserves all the credit.
Fact or Fiction: There are numbers that have stopped showing up in the digits of pi.
A: Fiction. No numbers have gone missing. In fact, the numbers zero through nine are fairly evenly and consistently represented throughout the known numbers of pi.
AND FINALLY,
A FEW NON-PI-RELATED QUESTIONS.
Q: Is hippopotamus milk pink?
Q: Is Maine really the only state name with one syllable?
Q: Did the regatta originate as a gondola race in Venice?
Q: Are there timber rattlesnakes in Maine?
A: Yes. Yes. Yes. And most sources say no, but I tend to side with Early on this one.
RESOURCES
Beckmann, Petr. A History of Pi. Boulder, CO: Golem Press, 1970.
Berggren, Lennart, Jonathan Borwein, and Peter Borwein, editors. Pi: A Source Book. New York: Springer-Verlag, 1997.
Blatner, David. The Joy of Pi. New York: Walker, 1997.
Grandin, Temple. Thinking in Pictures: And Other Reports from My Life with Autism. New York: Doubleday, 1995.
Strickler, Darryl J. Rowable Classics: Wooden Single Sculling Boats and Oars. Brooklin, ME: Wooden Boat, 2008.
Tammet, Daniel. Born on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant: A Memoir. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2007.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is about many things, not the least of which is stargazing. The Kansas state motto is Ad astra per aspera—“To the stars through difficulties.” It’s no wonder we have stars in our motto, because we have such a wide-open sky in which to view them. But stargazing is an underappreciated opportunity in today’s world. So, a few words of thanks to many people who have encouraged me to not only look at the stars, but to stand under them in a spirit of wonder, awe, and gratitude.
First of all, to my mother. Early Auden is a boy with an amazing mind and an incredible gift. But the initial interest in a story like his was planted years ago and slowly took root before the first words came out. So special thanks to my mom for telling me of a dream she’d had one night about a young man with a remarkable gift for playing the piano. She probably said, “You should write a story about that.” And I did. Early doesn’t play the pia
And to my dad, for enjoying everything I do.
A very special thanks to my sister, Annmarie Algya and our wannabe sister, CY Suellentrop (pronounced “C-Y,” not “Sigh”), for accompanying me on a “research” trip to Maine. We always put the “research” part in quotes because the trip was way too much fun to be so narrowly categorized. We haggled with the rental car lady, had an “incident” in the hotel lobby, got addicted to NCIS, and sampled lots of chowder. Research at its finest … and funnest.
To the following people, who are the dream team of my professional life: My agent, Andrea Cascardi. I am so lucky that you said yes to my initial query. That started this whole wonderful ball rolling and it wouldn’t have happened without you. My editor, Michelle Poploff, and her assistant, Rebecca Short. Thank you for fostering, shaping, and loving this manuscript into its final form. You are the best at what you do. And thank you, Michelle, for the special Saturday phone call. My publicist, Elizabeth Zajac. Simply put, my daughters love you, and they are great judges of character. I hope they grow up with your kindness and optimism.
To Vikki Sheatsley and Alex Jansson for a beautiful and intriguing book cover.
To my writing colleagues, Christie Breault, Beverly Buller, Dian Curtis Regan, Lois Ruby, and Debra Seely. Our writing group doesn’t really have a name, but I always look forward to seeing the entry I use in my calendar to remind me of an upcoming gathering. The Writer Gals seems an appropriate name, as they are a wonderful group of both.
To Jack Devries and his mom, Sarah. Jack is a great kid who has been in my son Paul’s class since kindergarten. Jack is on the autism spectrum, and he has been a model for developing a character with a great heart and a gentle spirit. And thanks to Sarah for being a good friend and adviser in the writing of this book.