The package was addressed to her. For a brief moment, she thought it was from Marshall, and her heart rose with excitement. Then she saw the look on her father’s face.
“My birthday’s not until next month.”
“Just open the box.”
Inside was a telescope. The same kind her science teacher had used for demonstrations. A Schmidt-Cassegrain, with an Equatorial mount. The telescope must have cost at least two thousand dollars. Loo suspected Principal Gunderson had helped her father pick it out.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Learn something I don’t know,” said Hawley.
And so she did.
While her father took their catch to the fish market, Loo spent the afternoon assembling her new telescope, setting it up on the roof outside her bedroom window. She knew the gift was a bribe, meant to change her sour mood, but she didn’t care. For hours her mind was distracted. She read the instructions on how to align with the Earth’s axis, dialing the setting circles to the correct month and day. Then she dug out her planisphere and the book on the solar system that Marshall had given her. In the back there was a chart listing the coordinates of the planets. She peered through the viewfinder, blinking against the sun. There were still hours to go before it would be dark enough to see anything.
Loo climbed back into her bedroom. From the closet, she took out her only dress. She’d worn it once, on graduation, and then put it right back into the plastic bag. Loo unknotted the bag now, then reached her hand up the skirt, past the zipper, and unclipped the envelope she’d pinned to the cloth there—her new hiding place, after Hawley found her stash of money in the attic. Inside the envelope was everything she didn’t want her father to see: the black lace gloves, the scrapbook of her mother’s death and the clipboard with Marshall’s petition.
She removed the clipboard, then gathered the local map and the phone book they’d been using, brought everything down to the kitchen table and started copying out names. She used every kind of pen—ballpoint, gel, fountain, fine, ultra-fine, bold, blue, black, red, purple, even green—so the signatures would all look different, each loop and turn unique. She was no longer just replacing names that had been lost. She was building an environmental movement. At the library Loo had researched what she needed to complete the petition. The description of the marine sanctuary, the maps, the criteria and, most important, the support of five thousand members of the community. As she copied each signature she thought of Marshall Hicks. Every Harry, every Jane, every Archibald and Rocco was keeping him tied to her. And after a night of hot-wiring cars, forgery was a crime that seemed small enough to fit in her pocket.
She wrote until her shoulders ached. She wrote until her hands burned. She wrote until the tendons in each finger were so stiff she had to take breaks to stretch them, splaying her palms across the table. She was copying out the address for 756 East Main Street, Apartment #5—with 3,678 signatures forged and 1,322 signatures to go—when there was a knock at the door.
The man on their porch had gray hair that swept his shoulders and thickset hazel eyes. A week’s worth of stubble scrabbled across his chin. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans and cowboy boots. The toes were very pointy and made his feet seem very small.
“I’m looking for Samuel Hawley.” He was carrying a worn-out army-green duffel bag. It was just like her father’s. The one he kept locked in his closet, full of guns and ammunition. The stranger set the duffel on the porch. Loo heard the clink of metal on metal.
“He’s not here.” She took a step back.
“You the daughter?” The man looked her up and down and shook his head. “My God.”
There was something wrong with his face. All along one side of his cheek were tiny twists of scars, and patches of skin that were redder than the rest, like he’d been born with a stain of juice running down his cheek and neck. His hands had the same kind of blotches, on the wrists and knuckles.
“My name’s Jove.” He raised one of his scarred hands. “I’m an old friend of your dad’s.”
“Loo.”
Jove took her hand and pressed his other hand on top of it, so that she was caught for a moment between his palms. His fingers were rough but warm.
“You’re lovely, Loo,” he said. “But your father is one son of a bitch.” The man let out a snort like this was some kind of joke.
She pulled her hand away.
“He’ll be home soon,” said Loo. “Any minute, actually,” she added.
“Guess I’ll wait for him, then,” Jove said and walked past her into the house.
There was something in the man’s ruined face that reminded her of the fishing widows that used to come knocking. A need that seemed both desperate and dangerous. He hauled the duffel bag with him into the living room. Then he released a small, joyous shout and dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the bearskin rug.
“I can’t believe he still has this thing.” Jove tapped the bear on the snout. “The last time I saw this guy I was pulling a slug out of your father’s back.”
Loo said, “What are you talking about?”
“We were just kids screwing around,” said Jove. “Trespassing, you know, and some old coot ran us off. Took forever to dig that bullet out of his ribs. And the whole time Hawley was calling for some girl like it was the end of the world.”
“What girl?”
“Hell if I remember.”
“Lily?”
Jove stroked the bear again. “No, he didn’t know her yet.”
Loo knew which scar this was—the crater beneath Hawley’s right shoulder blade, which bloomed out like the head of a jellyfish. Hearing the details of how it had been carved into her father’s skin made her crouch down and touch the bear. She had walked over this rug her entire life. She’d never thought of where it had come from. She’d never thought to ask.
“I probably shouldn’t have told you about him getting shot.” Jove picked up his duffel bag and began to walk toward the kitchen. “I’ve always talked too much. That’s why we got along so well, because Hawley never says a damn thing.” He went to the fridge and opened it. He took out an apple, then lifted a small paring knife from the dish rack and began to cut slices, one by one, and put them into his mouth with the edge of the blade.
“Hey,” said Loo. “This isn’t your house.”
“I settle in quick.” Jove’s eyes went to the table. The phone book and Loo’s pile of pens. He snatched one of the scraps of paper she’d been practicing signatures on.
“Not bad,” he said. He held the paper up to the light. “Forging checks?”
“It’s for a petition.”
Jove picked up the clipboard. He read the statement at the top. He flipped through the papers. “So you’re some kind of environmentalist?”
“My boyfriend is.”
“Boyfriend!” said Jove. “Ha! Poor Hawley—has he beat the crap out of him yet?”
Loo took the clipboard away from him. She stuffed it into one of the cupboards, along with the phone book, map and pens.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Jove.
Loo watched him eat his apple. “How do you know my dad again?”