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Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
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dumping some," Tavy agreed, "But it's been polluted a long time, and it's not getting any better. The people at the hospital swear some of the illness around here is caused by that damned river. But they say that since we're in Tennessee and the paper company is in North Carolina, there isn't a lot we can do to stop it."
Taw made no move to get out his fishing tackle. "I don't reckon even them gold railroad watches could'a lasted through this," he said.
Maggie Underhill slammed her schoolbooks down on the table in the front hall and thrust her fist into her mouth to stifle her cry. "I'm home!" It was an automatic gesture, hard to suspend now that there was no one to notify of her comings and goings. Mark was outside, putting the car in the garage. They had hardly spoken a word on the way home.
School seemed to last an eternity these days. They had decided to go back the day after the funeral, because there didn't seem to be much point in sitting around the house staring at nothing, contributing to the silence. At least school would offer a distraction, they had reasoned.
Maggie had foreseen the clumsy attempts at advice and consolation that would be thrust at them by teachers and well-meaning friends, and she felt nothing at all as she sat there, murmuring thanks for their concern. She had been less prepared for the cruelty flung at them by the thoughtless and the malicious. Purring sympathy, some of her former friends had pressed her for details about the deaths, insisting that it would do her good to talk about it. Others had jeered that maybe all the Underhills were crazy, and in heavy-handed lunchroom jests, they warned each other to steer clear of Mad Maggie.
When the teasing or the prying concern began, she would excuse herself from the group with icy calmness, and then retreat to the bathroom, where she would huddle in the pink metal stall, weeping silently.
Mark seemed less affected by the reactions of his schoolmates to the family tragedy. He ignored the sympathizers just as steadfastly as he did the bullies, sailing past them with an unconcern that was more disinterest than disdain. In the week since the deaths he had said nothing of it to anyone. Not even to her. Both the sheriff and the school guidance counselor had suggested that they seek grief therapy in Johnson City, but Mark had politely refused for both of them. They could manage perfectly well, he insisted. He hadn't asked if she had wanted to go; hadn't cared. She had never really been close to Mark, despite—or perhaps because of— their closeness in age.
Maggie started up the stairway, past a gauntlet of family pictures hung in the stairwell, tracing the Underhill children from babyhood until the present. There was Josh in a cowboy hat, grinning toothlessly at a stuffed bear: Fort Sill, 1972, and Daddy was a first lieutenant. Above that was a framed wedding portrait of Mother and Daddy, 1969. Mother had long, straight hair that suited the era, but looked out of place with the beige suit she'd worn at her wedding. She looked very solemn, clutching her bouquet and staring slightly openmouthed at the camera. Beside her, 2d Lt. Paul Underhill, with a razored crew cut and crisp dress greens, eyed the camera with a winner's grin. Mark and Maggie were white-gowned infants in the first tier of pictures, gradually progressing to toddlers and well-groomed adolescents as one ascended the stairwell gallery. Simon appeared midway in the family history, a rosy blond baby in the same christening gown in 1983: Dad, a newly promoted major at Fort McPherson. Simon took up an increasing amount of space as a winsome toddler, much cuter than his sullen adolescent siblings. She tried to summon up an emotion that could be called missing Simon, but nothing would come.
Maggie stared for a moment at the progression of photographs, wondering if she could put out a finger, touch one, and say, "There. There is the time that things went wrong." But she couldn't. The good
Taw made no move to get out his fishing tackle. "I don't reckon even them gold railroad watches could'a lasted through this," he said.
Maggie Underhill slammed her schoolbooks down on the table in the front hall and thrust her fist into her mouth to stifle her cry. "I'm home!" It was an automatic gesture, hard to suspend now that there was no one to notify of her comings and goings. Mark was outside, putting the car in the garage. They had hardly spoken a word on the way home.
School seemed to last an eternity these days. They had decided to go back the day after the funeral, because there didn't seem to be much point in sitting around the house staring at nothing, contributing to the silence. At least school would offer a distraction, they had reasoned.
Maggie had foreseen the clumsy attempts at advice and consolation that would be thrust at them by teachers and well-meaning friends, and she felt nothing at all as she sat there, murmuring thanks for their concern. She had been less prepared for the cruelty flung at them by the thoughtless and the malicious. Purring sympathy, some of her former friends had pressed her for details about the deaths, insisting that it would do her good to talk about it. Others had jeered that maybe all the Underhills were crazy, and in heavy-handed lunchroom jests, they warned each other to steer clear of Mad Maggie.
When the teasing or the prying concern began, she would excuse herself from the group with icy calmness, and then retreat to the bathroom, where she would huddle in the pink metal stall, weeping silently.
Mark seemed less affected by the reactions of his schoolmates to the family tragedy. He ignored the sympathizers just as steadfastly as he did the bullies, sailing past them with an unconcern that was more disinterest than disdain. In the week since the deaths he had said nothing of it to anyone. Not even to her. Both the sheriff and the school guidance counselor had suggested that they seek grief therapy in Johnson City, but Mark had politely refused for both of them. They could manage perfectly well, he insisted. He hadn't asked if she had wanted to go; hadn't cared. She had never really been close to Mark, despite—or perhaps because of— their closeness in age.
Maggie started up the stairway, past a gauntlet of family pictures hung in the stairwell, tracing the Underhill children from babyhood until the present. There was Josh in a cowboy hat, grinning toothlessly at a stuffed bear: Fort Sill, 1972, and Daddy was a first lieutenant. Above that was a framed wedding portrait of Mother and Daddy, 1969. Mother had long, straight hair that suited the era, but looked out of place with the beige suit she'd worn at her wedding. She looked very solemn, clutching her bouquet and staring slightly openmouthed at the camera. Beside her, 2d Lt. Paul Underhill, with a razored crew cut and crisp dress greens, eyed the camera with a winner's grin. Mark and Maggie were white-gowned infants in the first tier of pictures, gradually progressing to toddlers and well-groomed adolescents as one ascended the stairwell gallery. Simon appeared midway in the family history, a rosy blond baby in the same christening gown in 1983: Dad, a newly promoted major at Fort McPherson. Simon took up an increasing amount of space as a winsome toddler, much cuter than his sullen adolescent siblings. She tried to summon up an emotion that could be called missing Simon, but nothing would come.
Maggie stared for a moment at the progression of photographs, wondering if she could put out a finger, touch one, and say, "There. There is the time that things went wrong." But she couldn't. The good
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