THE NEXT DAY, fog rolls off the river, spreading white fingers as far inland as the barrens. It’s the coolest day we’ve had so far, but everybody’s sticky with humidity and hoping we’ll get rained out. Can’t rake berries in a downpour.
We’ve cleared the whole south field, so we spread out over the rise. I end up a few rows away from Shea. I catch myself trying to match his pace, raking so fast I’m breathless.
Shea’s flying. How did I miss this last summer? One minute he’s at the start of a new row, and the next he’s halfway down, doing these loose jabs like he’s shoveling snow. Leaves and sticks are scattering everywhere. He’s filled another three boxes when I finally can’t keep my mouth shut anymore.
“You clearing those bushes?” My voice is low.
At first, it seems like he’s going to ignore me. Then: “You quality control?”
“You’re fast, that’s all.”
“Didn’t think you liked it any other way.”
A muscle jumps in my jaw, but that’s it. “Bob gets a look at the leaves and crap in your boxes, you’re gonna get busted.”
“Worried about me?” He turns, taking me in. His voice is different, stiff, when he asks, “That’s really all you’ve got to say?”
I keep my eyes on my work, my skin burning, praying he’ll let the moment pass. He snorts, and says something under his breath that I don’t quite catch.
We both get back to it. I rake so hard that my arms feel like they want to come off at the shoulders, and when everybody breaks for lunch, I’m only two boxes behind him.
Around a mouthful I say, “This is amazing.”
Nell nods, picking her sandwich apart into small pieces. “I made the bread.”
“Holy crap, really? It’s awesome.”
Mags brushes off her hands. “Beats the stuff Mom buys.”
“Hell yeah.” I drink some water, catching a glint of silver at Nell’s collar. Christ. She’s wearing the necklace again. She’s tucked it into her shirt, but I can see the bump of the little comedy and tragedy masks underneath. It’s a pin, really—everybody who was in the one-act play two years ago got one—but she threaded an old chain through it like it’s special, like it was given just to her. I told her last summer that if I ever caught her wearing it again, I’d rip it off her neck, and now she knows I’ve seen it. She flinches and looks down.
Then Jesse’s between us, close enough that our arms touch.
He nods at Mags and Nell. “Ladies.” His shirt’s open.
Mags scoots over. “Hello.” I wish she wouldn’t sound so bitchy.
He plucks a piece of grass and rolls it between his palms, blowing through a gap to make a buzzing sound like a kazoo. “Gross day, huh. Ten bucks they call it by two o’clock.”
Nell’s staring at his hands. “How’d you do that?”
“This?” He makes the sound again, then flicks the blade away. “Whistle grass.”
Nell looks like somebody just told her that down is up and the stars are alien lightbulbs, sort of in on the joke but wanting to believe anyway. “He’s messing with you,” Mags says shortly. “There’s no such thing as whistle grass.”
“Sure there is.” Jesse smiles at Nell, and I can see the exact moment when he charms her. So much for Jesse Bouchard not being good enough. The girl needs sandbags tied around her waist to keep her from getting swept away by the slightest breeze. “Got to have a sharp eye to see it, though. Maybe every sixteenth piece of grass, you’ll find some.”
She leans down, smiling. “Where? They all look the same.”
“It’s a real dark green. Like that.” Nell picks it, rolls it between her hands, and blows. No sound. “Shoot. Well, keep hunting. They’re out there.” He finally looks at me. “You gonna be around this weekend?”
“Around where?”
“You know. Quarry. Drive-in. Kat’s house.”
I feel warm all over, but Mags’s stare reminds me not to act the fool, either. “Could be.” I don’t say anything else, and he starts to get up. “Best way to make sure of that would be to bring me yourself.” I lean back on my elbows. “Just saying.”
Tires crunch on gravel, and we look up to see a Sasanoa police cruiser coming up the road. Jesse’s grin fades.
Everybody watches the car park and the officers’ fresh-shined shoes touch gravel. Hard to believe that it was this time last year that I was sitting in a chair down at the station, staring back at an officer named Edgecombe as he asked, You a part of what went on out there last night? No, I said. But you have been in the past. Not telling, I thought. What happened to Rhiannon? Why ask me? I said.
Mrs. Wardwell is on her feet, hobbling to reach the officers before they get within earshot of us. The cops are both pretty young, with sunglasses and sunburned crew cuts. They stand with hands on hips, checking out us rakers.
Knowing we’re being watched makes me realize how weird we must look, segregated even at lunchtime: migrants grouped off to the left, locals to the right. A couple migrant women in sweat-stained ball caps whisper to each other and turn their backs on us. It’s not just a race thing; there’re plenty of migrants cut from the same white bread as us. The difference is in how they hold themselves, how they move around the fields like they understand them, like they’ve done it all before because they have, except maybe the crop was celery in California or apples in Massachusetts. How they got no intention of putting down roots in a dusty little speck like Sasanoa or anywhere else, and that makes them foreigners to townies like us.
Mr. Wardwell shows up, pulling off his work gloves as he joins his wife. Cops talk, Wardwells listen. I hear Mrs. Wardwell say, “Oh, sweet Jesus.” Her hands rise up to her face, then drop as the cops go on.
“They found her.” Mags’s voice is low. “Must’ve.”
We owe Jesse ten bucks. Rain comes down and we’re sent home. Usually Mrs. Wardwell leaves us out there until we’re drowned kittens, but today Bob blasts his truck horn three times and yells, “Bright and early tomorrow.” The migrants grab their lunch pails and head up the hill to the cabins. One guy has his little girl riding on his hip, her sandaled feet dangling down.
On 15, local and state cop cars are parked along the breakdown lane where the barrens turn to woods. As we pass, I see cops in rain gear and reflective vests milling around in the trees before my breath fogs the glass and erases them.
“She can’t be out there,” Nell says softly. “We looked. We looked through the whole woods.”
The search party combed the barrens and woods all the way over to Great Pond. Turned up plenty of old Winchester shells and beer cans, I bet. I don’t know for sure because I didn’t help search.
Back at the house, I take the first shower while Mags disappears into her room to check for news online. I’m in the kitchen getting a drink when Nell comes back from the trailer, her dark hair wet and combed straight back from her brow. It’s pretty rare for us to have a minute to ourselves, so I stop her on the porch, hooking my finger under her necklace. “What’s this?”
She cups her hand over it, flashing me a wounded look. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. You promised.” She looks at her feet. “Nell. You swore. Take it off.”
Whispering: “No.”
I grab at the chain. With a soft sound, she darts around me into the kitchen. I jerk her back by the elbow, then stop cold when I see Mags standing on the stairs.
My fingers loosen, my face softens, and I’m hoping it looks like we were just horsing around, just play-fighting. Nell doesn’t help me, either; she goes into the living room without a word, leaving me there with my sister. I don’t know how much Mags heard, but I’m guessing not much. After a beat, I say, “Find anything out?”
“The news isn’t even running the story yet.”
I pick up my glass from the table. “You really think they found her?”
“Maybe.” She keeps looking, probably for signs that I’m finally going to crack and bawl for my old bestie, but she should know better. I didn’t cry that Saturday morning last summer when Rhiannon’s mom called me. She must’ve been at the bottom of her list of names, calling the girl who didn’t come around anymore. Did Rhiannon sleep over last night? No. Have you seen her? Was there a party? My mouth too cottony from sleep to speak. I can’t find her. I can’t find her anywhere.
I didn’t cry at the assembly on the first day of school, when they asked anybody with information to come forward. Half the people who did cry didn’t even know her. I knew her once. Back when she had braces and a pageboy haircut she was always pushing back behind her ears, and her wardrobe was made up of Camp Mekwi Teen Counselor or anime T-shirts. I didn’t cry during the dedication at the end-of-school slide show, a parade of pictures of Rhiannon, starting when we were in sixth grade and dissected fluke worms. Rhiannon in shop class, smiling behind plastic safety glasses. Changing with each year. Growing her hair long, parting it on the side, learning how to wear makeup, how much was too much, changing her style, changing who she was, changing even her smile at the camera until it was a thin hint, a sly joke on us.
While Nell and I watch daytime TV like we’ll turn to stone if we look at each other, Mags brings the laptop downstairs and keeps going to the Ellsworth American and WABI-TV sites, checking for updates. Mom’s late getting home. She’s almost never late. I keep glancing out the window, hoping to see her pull into the driveway.
Around five forty-five, the front door opens and Libby comes into the kitchen, probably surprised not to find supper ready and her place set at the table. She looks through the living room doorway at us. “Where is she?”
Mags doesn’t turn. “Late.”
That’s when Hunt’s truck pulls into the driveway. We all go into the kitchen and watch Mom get out of the passenger side.
“Where’s your car?” Libby’s on her as soon as she opens the screen door.
“Sitting in Danforth’s parking lot. Hunt thinks it’s the starter.” Mom sets her scuffed leather purse on the counter and sighs, pushing her hands against her lower back, which has pained her ever since she got in that motorcycle accident with Dad before we were born. Mom ended up in the hospital, and Dad’s Indian went to Gary’s Salvage, where it probably still sits, buried in junk. Right now, it’s hard to think of Mom at twenty, hugging Dad around the waist as they took tight corners too fast; she always looks so washed-out when she gets home from work, like a photo of herself left too long in the sun.
I hear the truck engine start outside. “He’s leaving? Didn’t you ask him to stay for supper?” Mom opens her mouth, and I say, “I’ll get him,” running down the steps into the rain, waving my arms. “Hey!”
He tries to beg off, but I won’t let him, steering him inside and pushing the extra chair up to the table. Hunt’s wearing a dusty orange Husqvarna ball cap, and he takes it off, squeezing the brim in his hands as he watches Mom. He has dark spots of rain on his short-sleeved dress shirt and glistening in the hair on his arms.
“Hope you don’t mind waiting.” Mom wipes her hands on her jeans, looking as flustered as she ever does. “I’m not sure what we’ll have—”
“We’ll figure it out.” Mags opens the fridge. “Corn on the cob? Darce, go pick some. Nell, make some burgers, you’re good at it.”
Our corn is pretty small this year, and when I shuck the ears, I have to evict a couple fat borers, but nobody will be able to tell the difference once they’re boiled. Nell, Mags, and I split the work, while Libby brews coffee and drops ice cubes into it, watching Hunt through the steam.
Mom’s fixed Hunt a meal at our place here and there, but this is the first time he’s ever stayed for supper. He looks kind of uncomfortable sitting there with his forearms resting on the vinyl place mat. Maybe it’s because that chair’s too short for him. I switch the radio on; the hourly news starts, and, remembering Rhiannon, I shut it off. I don’t want her at our table.
Meat sizzles in the skillet. Mom fills a mug for herself and Hunt and sits, clearing her throat. “I should probably call Gary now.”
Hunt nods. “Beat the rush.”
Mom laughs—everybody knows Gary usually sits outside the office in a cane-bottom chair, spitting dip into a soda bottle and swapping stories with his mechanic—and that’s the Hunt factor, actually getting my mother laughing, putting color back in her cheeks.
“So you two are going to ride together until the Subaru’s fixed?” Libby smiles in a way that doesn’t touch her eyes. “Cozy.” I set the ketchup and mustard down so hard that the napkin holder jumps. Libby says to him, “Did you ever get an estimate on how much it’ll cost to put a new coat of paint on this place?”
“I did.” He lets her wait a second. “Too much. I’ll do it myself.”
“When?”
“Next week, if you like.”
“I would like.” Her smile is a mean little bow, and I imagine punching it off her face, sending her over backward in her chair, her glasses landing splat in the butter dish. She’d be out on her ass if it wasn’t for Hunt and Mom; she couldn’t afford a two-bedroom trailer on her Rite Aid paycheck without Mom chipping in and Hunt charging next to nothing. He holds my gaze for a second, and I get the feeling he almost read my mind, because he keeps his mug up high like he needs it to hide his mouth.
“Well, there’s no hurry, Lib.” Mom’s got that V between her brows again. “It’s paint. He can start whenever he’s got time.” She turns her back on Libby as Mags sets the food on the table. “I’m guessing they let you girls out early?”
We nod. Nell says, “The cops came.” Her eyes widen when she notices me and Mags staring at her. “Well . . . they did.”
“What did they want?”
Nell glances at us, then blurts, “They talked to the Wardwells. Mrs. Wardwell said, ‘Oh, Jesus.’” She purses her lips, but the rest of the words bloop out like sour candy: “Cops were looking around in the woods, too.”
You could hear a grain of salt fall. Mom turns to me. “They give you any trouble?” I was the only raker who was questioned twice last year, because they didn’t believe my answers. I shake my head.
“Could be they found her.” Libby butters her corn. “Animals might’ve dug something up.”
“I can’t see the cops and the search party missing something so close to where they turned up signs of that fire.” Hunt uses the ketchup. “That was about all they had to work with for evidence, paper said.”
A scorch mark in a nest of boulders, like someone had wanted to hide the firelight from the road. A blackened forty-ounce bottle and some crushed beer cans. And Rhiannon’s messenger bag that had once been army green before it was fed to the fire, with a few smart-ass buttons pinned to it. You could still read one shaped like two cherries on a stem that said Eat Me.
Berry bushes around the rocks had caught, smoldered, and gone out in the early-morning drizzle. The Wardwells could’ve lost half their harvest if it wasn’t for the rain. I saw the scene myself, me and the other rakers who were working that section of the field the morning after Rhiannon disappeared. Her mom must’ve called the Wardwells that morning, too, because when Bob saw that bag in the ashes, he called the cops.
“I don’t know about this, Nellie Rose.” Libby shakes her head, and Nell looks up quick. “I told you I didn’t want you raking again this year. It’s a trashy job, hanging around with a bunch of drifters.”
“She doesn’t,” Mags says. “She works and then she comes home.” Maybe I didn’t want to rake this season, but Nell did. This is her only chance to earn money for herself all year, because Libby wants her to focus on her schoolwork the rest of the time. Except for drama, of course. Got to make time for that, it being Nell’s passion and all. Nell’s tearful and blinking hard now.
“All the same. Everybody knows that Foss girl got mixed up with one of those migrants and got herself killed, and one of these days they’ll turn her body up in the Penobscot, just like they did that fella who jumped off the bridge last winter.” The river tends to give people back one body part at a time.
I hate the scared don’t say I can’t go anymore look on Nell’s face, and I feel like I have to speak up. “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would Rhiannon be hooking up with some migrant? She didn’t do stuff like that. And a migrant wouldn’t start a bonfire down in the field, anyway. They have their own pit up at the cabins.”
“Maybe he didn’t want anybody knowing he was carrying on with a sixteen-year-old girl. They got laws against these things. Little girls aren’t supposed to be out drinking and screwing.” Libby gives me a cool stare. “Doesn’t stop some people, though, does it?”
My hands slowly curl into fists. Mags and Nell stare at their plates.
Hunt clears his throat. “Now this,” he says, taking a bite, “is how you make a burger.”