MAGS WATCHES ME at breakfast. I say, “What?” hoping if I sound pissy enough, she’ll stop. She wants answers. I’m not giving any.
I wonder if all the lying I’ve done for Nell has changed my looks somehow, made me older, harder. I definitely don’t feel the same as I did sophomore year, before everything happened. I remember hearing a song once that said something like, I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then. Wish to God it worked that way, for Nell and me both.
“Is Nell okay?” Mags stares me down.
Mom’s upstairs getting ready for work, and I want to kill this before she comes down. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Are you sure? Seems like something’s off.”
“She’s fine. When is she ever not fine?” Because I make sure of it. Mags thinks she takes care of everything, but really, it’s me. See how good a job I’m doing?
I got a look under Nell’s surface last night, and what I saw made me heartsick. I really thought she’d get over it. I figured she just needed some time, a new school year, to take her mind off everything. I should’ve known Nell would be different. She feels things too hard.
The day is whisper-still and dripping with humidity. Thunderstorm weather. We need a big one to roll in and break it wide open. Since I can’t put my anger away—Elise tore the lid off yesterday—I use it as fuel to rake against Shea. He doesn’t have as many followers today, probably because some of them decided it’s no contest.
“Are you even on the board anymore?” Shea calls over at one point while we’re both topping off boxes and stacking new ones.
“Guess you don’t know how to read.”
“It’s tough when the writing’s waaay down at the bottom.”
“Fun-ny. I haven’t had so many laughs since the Fourth.”
The other guys in earshot go “Ohhh.” That one hit home, but I won’t check to see how he took it, won’t waste the seconds. “You loved it,” he calls back.
“Oh, yeah. All three inches of it.”
The guys bust up laughing, can’t believe I said it. I grab my rake and walk back down the row. Not my fault if he doesn’t know better than to mess with me today. I hear him slam a box down, then another, hard enough to crack the plastic.
Thunder rumbles around four thirty. Storms love the Penobscot, come booming across the river with enough power to rattle our windows. We’re packing up our gear when the first crooked finger of lightning touches down over the water. Duke and Mr. Wardwell get the last load secured to the truck while Mrs. Wardwell crabs at them to hurry as she folds her chair and magazines.
Nell reaches us, the wind whipping her hair free of her handkerchief. Thunder booms overhead, followed by a flash up on the hill that makes everybody flinch.
“Holy crap.” Two drops of rain spatter the lenses of Mags’s glasses. “That hit close.”
We’re leaving the field when we hear shouting. A couple people run down the hill toward us, yelling and gesturing back at the cabins. Flames lick over the rise.
Mr. Wardwell curses. He and Duke get into his pickup and tear up the road. There’s confusion, shouting, people following them to help—but a lot of people not moving, too, milling and muttering or hanging around their cars to see what everybody else is going to do. Somebody whistles, and I see Jesse dropping his tailgate for us, waving us in. Mason’s standing in the bed, and he gives Mags a hand up.
The cabins sit in a clearing at the peak of the hill where the barrens border on the neighboring property; you can see them when you drive down Back Ridge Road, five little buildings with rusty tin roofs and matchstick porches. Jesse pulls into the driveway and we pile out.
Smoke and flames boil out of the roof of the second cabin from the road. Some migrants throw water from gallon pails, and Mr. Wardwell hauls ass around the first cabin with a garden hose unwinding behind him. Mrs. Wardwell drove up in the flatbed, and I see her grab a crying little girl and swing her up into the truck like she weighs as much as a sack of flour.
Everyone starts dousing the flames, using anything that will hold water. Somebody hands me a plastic bowl, and Jesse gets an old caulk bucket. I run to the hand pump everybody’s drawing from, and then back to the cabin, passing Mags and Nell as they run for refills.
The water I throw disappears into the smoke; I can’t even tell if it hit the roof, if I’m making any difference at all, and I can’t stop coughing. Mr. Wardwell’s soaking down the walls and porch with the hose, his face ruddy, white hair kicking up in front with sweat. “They on their way?” he yells at Duke, but Duke’s still on the phone with 911.
The grass catches a little, and some migrants stomp it out, only to have another piece of burning insulation drift down and light up a few feet away. Migrants run out of the cabins on either side with their arms full of stuff: backpacks and bedrolls and plastic bags of food and dishes. One guy carries a Jack Russell terrier, squirming and barking like she’s ready to take on the fire herself.
I don’t know how long we throw water before I notice that I’m wiping rain from my eyes. It’s finally coming down. The cabin’s still burning, but soon it’s more smoke than flame, and the other cabins are drenched, so they won’t catch. We keep the water coming anyway until the fire trucks show up.
As we all stand back so they can turn the hose on it, Mags, Nell, and I lean on each other, exhausted. Nell rests her head on my shoulder while I put my arm around Mags, catching my breath and checking out the migrants’ turf.
It’s not much more than a scrubby patch up here, really, with two Porta-Johns by the tree line and a little fire pit in a ring of stones. The cabins have been tagged all over by Sasanoa wannabe gangstas. The Wardwells have covered it with big patches of gray paint, but I can still read the word spic, and more f-bombs than I care to count.
Little kids have started appearing on the porches of the cabins at the far end. I can’t believe how many families are crammed into these five little houses. There’s a skinny, freckled, hard-faced lady standing with a man and a little boy, watching what’s left of the cabin roof collapse. Whatever they had inside, something tells me they couldn’t afford to lose it.
“We got to talk,” Jesse says.
I don’t want to hear this. I want to hear you were awesome up there, Darcy, or you look hot with your hair wet or anything other than the breakup words. Mags and Nell are waiting for me in the car, the engine running, the wipers going. I sit with one leg out of the pickup, one hand gripping the door.
He says it fast, like somebody on the verge of wussing out, and he doesn’t look away from the dash. Mason’s waiting in the rain for me to let him slide into the seat, and I tell myself that Jesse wouldn’t do this to me in front of one of his buddies. He wouldn’t be that cruel.
When he finally looks back at me, his expression doesn’t give much away. “Drive-in tonight? It’s supposed to clear up.”
I sag like a popped balloon. The drive-in isn’t a breakup place. You can’t make a quick escape after ripping somebody’s heart out at the drive-in. I scribble my number down on a take-out napkin and let in Mason, who makes a point of not looking at me at all.
“You should see how crappy those cabins are.” I towel off my hair as Mom, Libby, and the girls set the table for supper.
“I’ve seen them,” Mom says. We were late getting home; as soon as we came through the door, Libby went off on Nell about not calling before Mags could shout over her about the fire. Now Libby’s tight-lipped, banging dishes down.
“They don’t even have power or running water or anything.” I hang the towel over the back of my chair. “And there’s, like, fifteen people to a cabin, at least.”
“Not that many,” Mags says.
“Close enough.”
Mom shrugs, refusing to get bent out of shape like I want her to. “I’m sure they’re glad to have roofs over their heads. Better than sleeping in tents or their cars. Growing up, I remember a potato farmer up the road had a bunch of junked buses for the migrants to stay in during harvest time.”
The screen door opens and Hunt leans in, soaked to the bone from rushing around collecting his tools. He lifts a hand to Mom. “Taking off.” He starts to duck out again.
“No, stay,” I say. “We’re having fried chicken.”
“Can’t. Thanks.”
“At least take some with you.” Mom goes to the cupboard and pulls out Tupperware. “We got enough pasta salad to feed an army.”
Hunt steps in and waits by the counter, his gaze resting mildly on Libby for a second before checking out the kitchen, the chipped cupboards and the shuddery old Frigidaire covered in alphabet magnets and clippings from the plays Nell’s been in over the years. The photo of sophomore year’s one-act play The Tempest has yellowed and curled at the corners. You can see Nell in the far corner, playing the part of Ceres, a spirit with one line. “Hunt, you ever seen those migrant cabins?” I say. “I mean, up close?”
“Private property up there, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but there was a fire today, and we went up to help. It sucks. People got their kids stacked in there like cordwood.”
“Darcy exaggerates.” Mags looks at him over the top of her glasses. “A lot.”
Nell shakes her head. “I dunno, I wouldn’t want to use those outhouses. I wouldn’t want to pee over that hole in the middle of the night with daddy longlegs and—”
“Nell,” Libby says sharply, as if saying “pee” is right up there with cussing out somebody’s mother. “You don’t need to worry about those people. You need to worry about yourself. You can’t even see your way to putting my laptop away after you use it or taking care of your dirty dishes on the coffee table. I shouldn’t have to be picking up after you all the time.”
“Sorry,” Nell mumbles, turning a napkin over in her hands.
“And don’t talk down into your chest. Throw your shoulders back and look people in the eye.” If I had a nickel for every time Libby’s said that, I could finally pay to have her trailer moved to Outer Mongolia. She clears her throat and starts loading her plate. “Well, maybe this fire will finally end it. Maybe Bob and Evelyn will have the sense to tear those cabins down and stop courting trouble.” Plop goes a dollop of butter. “Tell those people to keep right on driving next harvest.”
Hunt says, “Those people need the work.”
Stillness settles over us like a sheet shaken out over a mattress. I watch Libby stop, holding her knife, and turn his way. “So do the people of this town. People who live here year-round and pay their taxes.”
“You see about as many year-round residents turning out for berry raking as you do ditch digging. It’s hard work, and most people don’t want to do it. The Wardwells hire migrants because they need the hands. Can’t fault them for that any more than you can fault somebody for traveling to where the work is. Especially when they got kids to feed.”
For Hunt, that was a speech and a half. I try to keep the smile off my face as I watch Libby set her knife down carefully, color rising into her cheeks. “If you think bringing in ex-cons and illegals to work side by side with our children is understandable, you got a problem. And that little Foss girl’s blood is on your hands, and the Wardwells’, and anybody else’s who thinks the same way.”
Mom says, “Lib,” but Hunt doesn’t hesitate.
“I’ve known the Wardwells half my life. They’re decent folks. They probably believe what I do, that almost all of us sprung from people who come over on a boat or a plane or maybe had to sneak across a border or two. Turning away somebody who wants to work just because their home’s on wheels or they ain’t the right color is wrong, and if you don’t think so, I’d say you’re the one with a problem.” He takes the stack of covered dishes from Mom, who looks like you could knock her over with a stiff breeze. “Smells good, Sarah. Thank you.” He nods our way as he leaves. “Have a nice evening.”
It’s the quietest meal we’ve eaten together in a long, long time.
The phone rings while I’m doing the washing up, and even though I run, Libby gets to it first. After a second, she holds the extension out to me like it’s got eight crawly legs and antennae.
Instead of hello, Jesse says, “You guys got a landline?”
I wonder when the last time was that he had to deal with a girl’s family when he called to ask her out. “Mom won’t pay for us to have phones. Nell’s the only one who’s got one.”
“Oh. Well, rain’s stopped. You up for the show?”
He’ll pick me up in an hour. I’ve got butterflies; this isn’t just a hookup. I could tell by the sound of his voice. Whatever it is he wants to tell me, it sounds like it’s eating at him.
Upstairs, I look through my clothes; nothing seems right. I notice some T-shirts I never wear anymore, a pair of track pants that never fit me right. I bring them downstairs with an extra fleece blanket, passing Libby and Mom at the table with their coffee.
Mags and Nell are sprawled on the porch floor playing Hearts. I poke Mags’s butt cheek with my toe. “Maybe tomorrow we could bring some things in for the people who lost stuff in the fire. Like donations.”
Nell lights up like I knew she would. “Yeah! Like clothes and food.” She takes off for the trailer, and Mags goes to her room to dig around.
We end up with two bags of pretty good stuff. Libby watches me like she’s got a nasty taste in her mouth, and finally, she can’t hold it in anymore. “Well, aren’t you Mother Teresa. Your mom can barely afford to keep you in clothes as it is, and here you are, giving them away.”
“I buy my own clothes.”
That stops her barely long enough to take breath. “Doesn’t stack up next to rent, bills, and groceries, does it? You got no idea how much it costs to run a household. This family is the one who needs donations, for God’s sake.” She ticks away with her nail at a crack in her mug. “Don’t see us holding our hands out.”
Mom sets her mug down hard. “I’ve got some stuff to add to your bag, girls.”
She comes down from the attic with her face set. She’s carrying Dad’s big winter coat, his steel-toed boots, and his wool camp blanket with Prentiss stitched into one hem. Mags and I look at each other, wide-eyed.
Libby stands up. “You can’t give those away! What’re you thinking?”
“Well, which is it, Lib? Either I can’t keep them because it’s been years and I got to move on, or I can’t give them away because they belonged to Tommy. Make up your mind.” Mom drops the stuff into a trash bag, tying it with sharp movements. “God knows you two never liked each other, anyway.” She looks Libby in the eye. “But he was never too scared to make a commitment to me, or to his girls. Even you can’t argue that.”
We stare. Libby’s cheeks drain pale, and she pushes her chair back and leaves the house quietly, not even slamming the door behind her. I don’t understand what just happened, other than that Mom schooled Libby somehow. Being a know-it-all is what gets Libby through the day, and now she’s had her mouth shut for her twice in one night. We girls slip out in different directions and leave Mom in the kitchen with her smoke and memories.
When Jesse pulls into the driveway at dusk, I step out the door to meet him. Nell’s voice startles me from the swing. “You going now?”
She’s sitting with her legs tucked to the side, playing Matchmaker, a game she made up when we were kids. She lays all the face cards on the table, then pairs up the king of spades with the queen of clubs and so on, until everybody’s a couple. Then the jack of diamonds comes along to steal the queen away, that kind of thing. Her version of solitaire, I guess. I haven’t seen her play it in a long time, but I recognize the lay of the cards.
“It’s Peyton Place this week.” She’s got the joker in her hand, slipping him between each king and queen like she can’t decide who to split up next. I can’t see her very well, really, until she turns her head, catching the glow from the kitchen window. Her face is full of loss. “Tell me about it tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Jesse flashes his brights, but I hesitate on the steps. “Don’t stay out here by yourself too long.”
She doesn’t answer. As I cross the yard, I look back at the light in Mags’s bedroom window. I wish sisters really had a psychic link, so she’d know to come downstairs right now and be with Nell. She needs someone, but tonight, it can’t be me.
In Jesse’s truck, he leans over and kisses me deep, catching me off guard. As we pull out, I check Nell in the side-view mirror, but I can’t tell her from the porch shadows anymore.
Libby’s always saying how bad I am. God knows she’s not the only one. But when I see our good girl sitting out there in the dark, mourning some sick excuse for love, playing make-believe because she isn’t allowed the real thing, I think maybe I’ve got the better deal. I’ve got more freedom than Nell will ever know.