“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.