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Authors: Jacqueline Baker
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now? I suppose so. Or she wouldn’t have sent Owen.”
“So he says.” Lucy turned back to the window, looked down at Owen. What was he staring at? “Is he sick?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Owen Gower.”
“Is he?” Her mother misted her throat with a spray bottle from the dresser. “Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.” Lucy leaned on the window ledge, stared down at her legs. She did have grass on her feet. She brushed it off against the carpet. “He
says”
—she drew the word out—“he says he’s got skin cancer.”
Lucy’s mother laughed. “I don’t think Owen Gower has skin cancer.”
Below them, Owen had not moved. Geez, that kid was patient. Lucy put a finger up on the glass, right over his small body. She could block him out completely if she wanted to.
“Don’t smear that, Lucy,” her mother said.
Lucy moved her finger, looked down at Owen, at his small, pale face turned up to the sky. She shouldn’t have flashed him like that. She picked up the empty glass on the table, watched her mother slip into a pair of sandals.
“Where you going?”
“To take the cake pan back.”
Lucy put the glass down, stared at her mother. “That’s what he’s here for,” she said. “He’s down there waiting. You can’t just send him home, after he’s been waiting like that.”
“Oh, I should probably stop by and see that baby.”
“What for?” Lucy said. She wasn’t chilly anymore, she felt her body flush, from the stomach upward. Her head began to ache. “You don’t even know her.” Maybe she’d stayed out in the sun too long. “Send it back with him.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
Lucy turned toward the window.
“You don’t even know her,” she said. She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples. Thought of Owen sitting below her on the grass. Of Lillie, her face so round and soft under the yellow light. She wasn’t anybody to be afraid of. She was just Lillie Gower. A cocktail waitress. A barmaid. She was trash.
“Lucy,” her mother said, stepping toward her in a hot cloud of lilac perfume, “what in the world are you crying about?”
Redberry, Ministikwan, Buffalo Pound
For the second time that morning, Lavinia left her spade and the pails of potatoes she’d been digging to slip between the tight rows of corn standing blue and hard in the early light. She pulled off her coat—one of Jack’s old flannel ones, far too large—and wiped sweat from her forehead and upper lip with the hem of her shirt. She leaned back, resting her forehead against her arms, and tried to take long, slow breaths, tried to pull the air through her, clear and cold and still-dark, like water from the rain barrel when the ice was chipped open. It would be good to go there now, to where it stood under the shadows of the eaves on the north side of the house, hack off a big chunk to hold between her lips. But Jack would think she was slacking. So she crouched between the rows of corn,smelling the rich root-cellar smell of dug potatoes and rolling her forehead against the skin of her arms.
From where she crouched, she could see Jack through the browning leaves, hammering against the truck engine by the barn, each blow ringing across the yard like the clipped pealing of a bell. It was a strange sound, one that did not travel up, toward the slowly lightening sky, but only outward, across the fields—still dark and rimy—as though it too stuck fast to the earth. Each blow running in ripples beneath her boots, shivering up through her bones, her stomach—a small, wayward earthquake.
That shivering made her think of those snake pits where she’d stopped once with her parents, on the only family holiday they’d ever taken—south, to Cypress Hills. They’d stood, the three of them, looking down at what appeared at first not to be snakes at all, but simply a shifting mass that rippled as though beneath one skin.
But once she’d been able to distinguish the individual
“So he says.” Lucy turned back to the window, looked down at Owen. What was he staring at? “Is he sick?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Owen Gower.”
“Is he?” Her mother misted her throat with a spray bottle from the dresser. “Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.” Lucy leaned on the window ledge, stared down at her legs. She did have grass on her feet. She brushed it off against the carpet. “He
says”
—she drew the word out—“he says he’s got skin cancer.”
Lucy’s mother laughed. “I don’t think Owen Gower has skin cancer.”
Below them, Owen had not moved. Geez, that kid was patient. Lucy put a finger up on the glass, right over his small body. She could block him out completely if she wanted to.
“Don’t smear that, Lucy,” her mother said.
Lucy moved her finger, looked down at Owen, at his small, pale face turned up to the sky. She shouldn’t have flashed him like that. She picked up the empty glass on the table, watched her mother slip into a pair of sandals.
“Where you going?”
“To take the cake pan back.”
Lucy put the glass down, stared at her mother. “That’s what he’s here for,” she said. “He’s down there waiting. You can’t just send him home, after he’s been waiting like that.”
“Oh, I should probably stop by and see that baby.”
“What for?” Lucy said. She wasn’t chilly anymore, she felt her body flush, from the stomach upward. Her head began to ache. “You don’t even know her.” Maybe she’d stayed out in the sun too long. “Send it back with him.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
Lucy turned toward the window.
“You don’t even know her,” she said. She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples. Thought of Owen sitting below her on the grass. Of Lillie, her face so round and soft under the yellow light. She wasn’t anybody to be afraid of. She was just Lillie Gower. A cocktail waitress. A barmaid. She was trash.
“Lucy,” her mother said, stepping toward her in a hot cloud of lilac perfume, “what in the world are you crying about?”
Redberry, Ministikwan, Buffalo Pound
For the second time that morning, Lavinia left her spade and the pails of potatoes she’d been digging to slip between the tight rows of corn standing blue and hard in the early light. She pulled off her coat—one of Jack’s old flannel ones, far too large—and wiped sweat from her forehead and upper lip with the hem of her shirt. She leaned back, resting her forehead against her arms, and tried to take long, slow breaths, tried to pull the air through her, clear and cold and still-dark, like water from the rain barrel when the ice was chipped open. It would be good to go there now, to where it stood under the shadows of the eaves on the north side of the house, hack off a big chunk to hold between her lips. But Jack would think she was slacking. So she crouched between the rows of corn,smelling the rich root-cellar smell of dug potatoes and rolling her forehead against the skin of her arms.
From where she crouched, she could see Jack through the browning leaves, hammering against the truck engine by the barn, each blow ringing across the yard like the clipped pealing of a bell. It was a strange sound, one that did not travel up, toward the slowly lightening sky, but only outward, across the fields—still dark and rimy—as though it too stuck fast to the earth. Each blow running in ripples beneath her boots, shivering up through her bones, her stomach—a small, wayward earthquake.
That shivering made her think of those snake pits where she’d stopped once with her parents, on the only family holiday they’d ever taken—south, to Cypress Hills. They’d stood, the three of them, looking down at what appeared at first not to be snakes at all, but simply a shifting mass that rippled as though beneath one skin.
But once she’d been able to distinguish the individual
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