A long pause followed. Lynn dug her fingers into the cold ground at her feet and watched Stebbs from the corner of her eye. He was absolutely still, but she could feel his steely blue gaze.
“Those people wandered out here unprepared, they invited their own fate. The only person to blame for what happened to Mother is me.” She stood up, wiping the cold dirt from her hands. She offered him a palm. He took it, and she jerked him to his feet roughly, forcing all of his weight onto his bad leg. Stebbs grabbed at her for support and she dug her free hand into his upper arm.
“We’ll help them,” she said. “But you don’t ever talk to me about Mother again unless I ask.”
He nodded his agreement and she released his arm. He stumbled away from her, rubbing where her iron grip had been. “It’s the right thing to do. Just like bringing Lucy back here was.”
“I’ll go with you tomorrow night, after she’s asleep,” Lynn continued as if Stebbs hadn’t spoken. “The boy knows me, at least. If you walk in there, he might hit you over the head with a rock. Wouldn’t want that.”
“Tomorrow night,” Stebbs agreed, and melted into the darkness. “I think we’re in danger of becoming friends,” his voice echoed back.
The girl was deeply asleep when Lynn returned to the basement, and she didn’t have the heart to wake her. Stebbs had unknowingly put Lucy in Lynn’s own bed, and so she laid down in Mother’s cot, surprised at the waft of scent that enveloped her as she slid under the blankets. Mother’s smell was there, the outline of her body still imprinted on the mattress. Lynn fit into it nicely, and watched over Lucy while she slept.
Nine
The girl slept through the morning, and Lynn took the opportunity to confirm the fact that she did have lice. And fleas. She heaved a long sigh as she rocked back on her heels, contemplating the work to be done. The girl could bathe in water straight from the pond. It would have to be warmed on the cookstove, then carried upstairs to the bathroom. She took one of Mother’s huge canning pots down from a hook in the ceiling. It would take a very hot fire and a lot of time to boil the amount of water necessary for cleaning the bedding.
She made her first trip to the pond as a ribbon of pink was appearing on the horizon. A pistol was tucked into her belt, but Lynn was satisfied that nothing—and no one—was roaming in the grass. The onset of fall and lack of rain had dried everything to a crisp, making any movement a crackling announcement of your presence. The sight of the pond’s gravelly bank didn’t improve her mood. A fresh, new ribbon of shiny broken mussel shells and small rocks showed where the pond had recently receded. The white grip of her bucket handle loomed ever closer to the surface.
Lynn toyed with the idea of leaning in to grab it, removing forever the implied threat at the sight of it. But without it she was lost. All ponds have a bottom; she could only hope that hers was still well beneath the surface. If Mother had known exactly how deep the pond was, she had never told Lynn. The bucket handle was the only frame of reference she had.
Her boot stuck in the fresh mire near the pond’s edge as she struggled up the bank. It came free with a sucking sound and sent her reeling forward, dumping half a bucket of freezing water down her leg. “Son of a bitch!” She screamed the worst thing she’d ever heard Mother say, then kicked the bucket in anger, which only resulted in splashing her with more cold water.
Miserable and wet, she filled two more buckets and struggled toward the house with them. The basement air was warm and welcoming after the biting cold of the fall morning. Lynn peeled her wet clothes off and hung them from the rafters, put on fresh clothes and filled the stove pot with cold water. More wood went into the stove, and she checked her indoor supply. Low. Nearly out. She’d have to haul more before the end of the day if she was going to get the girl clean, her sheets sanitized, and a large enough fire to keep them warm through the night.
She considered waking the girl up and making her help, but the tiny little wrist hanging over the edge of her cot stopped her. It wasn’t much thicker than the kindling she used to start fires. If she asked her to haul wood, it might snap. Once she started throwing wood in through the window it would wake her. Lynn decided to give her a few more moments’ rest.
It was cold enough for her to slide mittens on to shield her fingers from the frigid metal of the antennae as she climbed to the roof. There was nothing to the south. Lynn rested her binoculars on her chest. She hadn’t heard gunshots lately; the men were not hunting, though three weeks ago they’d been desperate enough to steal a few cans of food from a young girl and a pregnant woman.