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.”