The back wheels of the trailer teetered at the edge of the ravine. For a moment Hawley was all that was keeping it there, the metal hitch tugging at his fingers. And then a clod of earth gave way, and he could feel the wheels go and the weight shift and then the trailer left his hands. Hawley stood at the edge of the mesa, the wind across his back, his palms reeking of oil and soot. The coach rolled slowly at first and then it bounced and began to gain speed. The glass burst from the heat. There was smoke coming out of the windows. The coach roared down the slope like a headless horseman, like Cinderella’s pumpkin turned to flame and ash.
It barreled across the flat plain, a streak of light through the prairie-dog town, and then kept rolling until it rammed the chain-link fence surrounding Hawley’s old place. The blaze lit up the edge of the gas field, and he could see blue sparks as the electricity caught and failed and then the floodlights went out, and the land went dark, and all that was left was the burning trailer, roaring like a monster against its cage.
The Cooler
POLICE CARS SWARMED UP AND down Main Street. Local and state authorities were put on alert. The Coast Guard was upping its patrols. The mayor gave a press conference, and the head of Fish and Game made some comments he later had to retract. Even The Boston Globe had sent a reporter to cover the story, and the local headlines were printed in inch-and-a-half type: BULLETS OVER BITTER BANKS.
Someone had fired a single shot into the front door of Mary Titus’s house. Disgruntled fishermen, folks were saying, or maybe one of the Moonies, or some hired thugs sent by Nova Scotia or the Japanese. Whoever pulled the trigger, it had brought enough media attention to the depletion of the catch and illegal fishing practices—including a TV spot on the national news—that the EPA and NOAA announced they were temporarily shutting down parts of the Banks until further studies could be performed. Each day millions of dollars were being lost. At the Sawtooth, it was all anyone would talk about.
“They were lucky no one was hurt,” said Agnes.
“They were lucky they didn’t get caught,” said Loo.
Mary Titus didn’t say anything, because Mary Titus wasn’t there. She’d taken a personal day. But Principal Gunderson was sitting at his booth, and he was losing his mind.
“This doesn’t happen,” he said. “Not in our town.”
“It does,” said Agnes. “It happens everywhere.”
Gunderson took another bite of his kippers. He ate kippers with eggs on toast every morning for breakfast. Kippers and eggs and coffee. Usually people would avoid his table for the smell. But now everyone was gathered around, because Principal Gunderson had started dating Mary Titus (three dates, he said—well, two and a half, really), and that’s where Mary Titus had been when her house was shot up—on her second-and-a-half date—eating dinner at Principal Gunderson’s house. Not kippers, Principal Gunderson said, because Mary Titus was a vegetarian.
What about Marshall? Loo wanted to ask, as Gunderson spoke about the cauliflower soup he had prepared especially for that night, the curried tofu and broiled pineapple for dessert.
“Mary never even got to taste it. The soup, I mean. We’d only had wine and kale chips when the police called,” said Principal Gunderson. “I can’t believe someone tried to kill her because of that petition. Though the threat on her life has made her very popular in environmental circles. Even her ex-husband called.”
“The guy from Whale Heroes?”
“That’s him,” said Principal Gunderson, and then he took a few more bites of his breakfast, chewing hard and slowly, as if he were imagining the ex-husband between his teeth. “He called ship-to-shore. He wanted to congratulate her.”
“What happened? After the cops came?”
“She couldn’t stop laughing,” said Principal Gunderson, “and I laughed, too. It all seemed so ridiculous. But even after she calmed down, she said she’d never stop fighting. It’s very admirable.”
“I don’t think your brothers would agree,” said Agnes.
Principal Gunderson looked worried. He took another bite of his breakfast. “Her son was home at the time. The police were taking his statement when I dropped Mary off. I put the dinner I’d made into Tupperware and left it with them. But I haven’t heard anything yet,” he said. “About how the soup was, I mean.”
“Did they find out who did it?” Loo asked.
Principal Gunderson gave a timid smile. “I believe the police don’t have any official suspects yet.”
“Whoever it is,” said Loo, “they’re going to regret it.”
“Oh, well, yes, of course, my dear.” Gunderson let out a soft belch and then began guzzling his coffee, as if he had suddenly remembered Loo’s rock-in-a-sock.
After the lunch rush Loo ducked into the walk-in cooler, the one place at the Sawtooth where they could sneak moments of privacy. She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle and stared at the rows of vegetables. Her breath clouded in front of her face, and that was all she could concentrate on: the frozen air coming and going from her own mouth.
It had been ten days since Jove launched his boat and sailed away from Olympus. She’d thought she’d be relieved when he left but she’d grown fond of him, the way he commandeered their kitchen, cooking giant meals, holding a spoon out for Loo to try. He’d made their home seem boisterous, and made her father behave more like a regular person. Now the house was quiet again and Hawley and Loo were avoiding each other. When they did cross paths, in the kitchen or outside the bathroom, her father looked at her like a beaten dog—nervous and twitching—and it took all she had not to kick him.
She signed up for as many extra shifts as the Sawtooth would give her. She worked and saved money and she wore her mother’s gloves and she tried to curb the anger inside of her and she waited for the sanctuary petition to pass, to prove that she was not like her father. That she was a person who could save things. Now her plan had nearly gotten Marshall killed.
Agnes opened the door to the freezer and stuck her head in. “You all right?” She pushed her pregnant stomach forward through the plastic curtain. “I can’t have you getting sick, not with Mary out, too.”
“Just give me a minute,” said Loo.
“Feels good in here,” said Agnes. She shut the door. “I wish I could smoke a cigarette.”
All around them was the smell of cold meat. The giant fridge hummed.
“He broke up with you, didn’t he?” said Agnes. “I can always tell. You’ve got that look, like you’re driving with a broken windshield.”
“Can you cover for me this afternoon?”
“Oh, honey,” said Agnes. “No.”
“What?”
“Don’t go over there. You don’t want to be that girl. Believe me.”
“I just want to see if he’s okay.”
“No, you don’t.” Agnes rubbed the side of her belly. “Besides, half the people out there think your father did this, even if no one’s saying so yet.”
“Why would he want to hurt Marshall?”
“He already beat up that boy at the police station. And Mary’s always showing off those stitches in her head. The fishermen might hate those hippies, but your father’s the only one who’s ever hurt them.”
Loo thought of the bruises on Marshall’s back from where Hawley had thrown him into the wall. Mary Titus pounding their front door with her tiny fists.