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.”
NINE
FROM THE ROOF, we can hear the argument grow and fade as they move around the kitchen, slamming chairs into the table, scraping plates.
Mom: “Who you were trying to embarrass more, me or him or the girls? Real nice talk, Lib—”
“—think he’s always coming around for?”
“He’s the landlord, for God’s sake—”
“Oh, please. You’d have to be blind . . .”
Nell lies with her head on Mags’s lap, staring off at the woods. “I’m sorry I told about the cops.”
“It’s okay.” Mags pets her hair. “It wasn’t really a secret. I didn’t tell you not to say anything.”
“But I should’ve known. I should’ve known it would ruin everything.” I recognize the clenched, concentrated look on her face; she’s angry at herself for always being a half-step behind. I’ve seen it on and off all year long, whenever she’s remembering and the words almost slip out in front of Libby or Mags before she catches herself, probably flashing back to the way I shouted at her that night last August. The way I shook her, and shoved her back against the car door and nearly hit her for the first time in our lives because I was so crazy-mad, aching all over with the truth of what she’d done. “You didn’t have to tell Darcy not to say anything.”
I hear the faucet go on full blast and dishes clunk into the sink. Mom sent us out of the room after Hunt left, so I guess I have him to thank for getting me out of dish duty tonight. I’d rather be scrubbing than wondering if Hunt will ever speak to any of us again after the world’s most awkward meal. “That’s sister stuff. Don’t you know all sisters are psychic?”