But she only started moving away again. The wake around her was widening into a rippling circle, with her at the center. Then she slowed once more, her neck craning, her mouth at the edge. Her hands moved in place like she was climbing an invisible ladder. She looked up at the sky. And then her head dipped under the surface.
“Lily!” Hawley pushed away from the dock. He let go of everything. He coughed and sputtered and willed his arms and legs forward. But he could not get himself closer to her. His body was lead. It dragged him under the current. His lungs filled with water. The waves churned with his own blood. His chest twisted tighter and tighter until he felt he would split in two. When he broke through the surface again, the spot where Lily had been was empty and the lake was as flat as a mirror.
Hawley’s mind raced back to when he’d opened his eyes that morning, Lily’s skin sealed to his own—no—back to when she pushed him out of the car and kept driving, if only she’d kept driving—no—back to the church, Lily at the baptismal fountain and the baby in his hands under the colored lights and the priest saying a blessing. A prayer, Hawley thought. If only he could remember the words. That’s what he needed now. Some way of sending a flare to the heavens. Like bones broken apart and made to look like flowers. A pattern of some hidden meaning that Hawley carried inside his own body, but had no way of tearing open to read, and no witness but the Cessna, circling in the sky like some kind of mechanical bird, and between the choking sputters of its engine Hawley heard no answers and no reasons for living except the cries of his daughter, echoing inside the metal canoe.
Pandora
“I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU to show up,” said Mabel Ridge when she answered the door. Her hands were still tinged slightly blue, but this time there were no goggles strapped to her head, no heavy apron around her waist. She was wearing a cardigan sweater and a turtleneck, her gray hair pulled back neatly in a bun. She did not seem surprised to see Loo. She did not seem surprised to see the Firebird in the driveway, either.
Mabel’s porch was covered with pumpkins that had been carved too soon. It was only the beginning of October, and already one of the angry jack-o’-lanterns had its teeth caving in, and one of the happy jack-o’-lanterns was leaking a sticky substance across the steps. Loo wiped her sneakers on the mat. The screwdriver she’d used to crack open the panel beneath the dashboard was inside the pocket of her sweatshirt, and she turned it over and over with her fingers. “I brought your car back.”
Mabel patted the railing. They stood facing each other on the dull gray porch. Then the old woman turned around and left the door open. “I’m making some tea,” she said. “Why don’t you join me, Louise.”
Loo stood on the threshold for a moment longer, then stepped inside. Mabel Ridge’s living room looked the same as before. The corners of the end table baby-proofed for some long-ago child. The arms of the sofa showing pulls from some long-forgotten cat. The rug threadbare from shuffles along one side. The loom in the corner, looming.
She followed the old woman down the hall into the kitchen, which was small and cramped as ever, the giant pots used to dye her yarn still on the stove. Mabel Ridge dragged one off and set it on the floor. Then she filled a kettle with water from the sink and lit the empty burner.
On the table was a copy of the local newspaper. Loo picked it up and read the headlines. PETITION PUTS PRESSURE ON POLS. LOCAL FISHERMEN ARRESTED. COAST GUARD DOUBLES PATROLS NEAR BITTER BANKS.
“Which side are you on?”
“No one’s,” said Loo.
“I thought your father was friends with those fishermen.”
“He is.”
“Well,” said Mabel Ridge, “the TV show was one thing, but if the Banks really gets turned into a marine sanctuary, it would mean big changes around here.”
Loo set down the paper. “You’re probably right.”
It had taken her nearly a month to finish the signatures. She had added Mabel Ridge’s name, along with thousands of others, and mailed the petition to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the EPA, city hall, the governor, state representatives and state senators, as well as the newspapers and local TV stations. She’d brought all of the packages to the post office, put them in manila envelopes and mailed them off like bombs she’d cooked up in her basement. Now they were starting to go off. But she still hadn’t heard from Marshall.
Loo sat down in one of the creaky kitchen chairs, the screwdriver tight against her palm.
“Don’t you want to know how I got the car back?”
“I think it’s better that I don’t.” Mabel opened the cabinet and took down two teacups and saucers. She set the cups on the table.
“Are you going to call the police?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
Mabel reached into the cabinet again and removed a teapot, then started rummaging around for tea bags. The china cups were thin and white with gold around the edges. The suggestion of rose petals was traced into the sides, the saucer a perfect single leaf, the handle a ring of porcelain thorns. Loo slid her fingers inside the ring and lifted. The cup was light and delicate, the edges strangely comforting in her hand. Loo pressed her thumb against one of the thorns.
The kettle began to whistle. Mabel used an oven mitt to lift it off the stove.
“I want to know whatever it is you think you know,” said Loo.
“Seems to me you’ve already figured it out,” said Mabel, “or you wouldn’t be here.” She poured the hot water into the teapot, steam rising around her shoulders. “Your father’s been lying to you.”
The kettle went back on the stove, the lid set in place.
“That doesn’t make him a killer.”
Mabel Ridge sighed. “Your mother used to look at me like that. Like she knew all the answers. But she didn’t know anything. And neither do you.”
Loo shifted in her seat. She pressed her nails against the screwdriver.
“He’s your father but he’s not a good person. You should know that by now.” The old woman took out a carton of milk and filled the small white creamer on the counter. “I was married to a man just like him. Gus was all caught up in the same world. I took Lily and I got out.” Her hands twitched at her sides. She brought the creamer over to the table and set it on a placemat. “A year from now you’ll be eighteen. Old enough to choose your own life,” she said. “You can get out, too.”
“Get out of what?”
“Trouble.” Mabel Ridge poured out the tea. “Your father acts like he’s got nothing to hide but that trouble is a part of him and he’s a part of it and as long as you’re with him you’re in danger.” She added milk and a spoonful of sugar to both cups.
“I don’t take sugar,” said Loo.
The old woman smiled a tired old smile. “Try it anyway.”
Loo wrapped her fingers around the porcelain. She brought it to her lips and took a sip. The tea was the color of toffee, the sweetness of the sugar and milk coating her tongue. The cup warm against her hand. She took another drink. She ran her thumb along the side of the handle, and then she felt it: a small rough spot, where a thorn had been broken off.