Fierce Little Thing

by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore

  I might have gotten up the guts to ask Abraham why he thought Ben had reacted that way—but Abraham had left the next day. His note, which I’d found before dawn, attached to the door of the Main Lodge with a paring knife, read: “Off to share our ways with the Thinged World. Back when I need to breathe again.”

  Marta forged uphill. “Hurry up, buttercups.”

  “My ankles are soaked,” Issy grumbled. If she’d heard my question, it hadn’t registered.

  “I’ve got sourdough in my pocket.”

  “You can’t bribe me out of wet socks.” Issy placed her hand over her eye to shield it from the emerging sun, and whistled at the coming climb.

  “Fungi are heterotropic,” Marta said. “That means they can’t make their own food; they have to take it from someone else. Well, guess who they take it from? Hmm?” She swiveled back with a tight frown. “Girls?”

  I raised my hand. “Trees?”

  “Smarter than you look.”

  “Did you notice,” I whispered, once Marta had turned back around, “that Ben got … kind of, I don’t know, mad or something when Abraham started talking about—”

  “You are such a baby about Abraham. He’ll be back soon. I told you already, he goes off sometimes—he has to spread our word in the Thinged World. We can’t Thing to him. It’s not right.” She was never this grumpy with Cornelia.

  We climbed past a rotting white birch stump (Betula something; Marta had said it too fast when we passed a stand), and a darting gray bird I thought was called a phoebe. I would have to just come out and say it. “Ben seemed really upset when Abraham said … when he said I was built to destroy.”

  I had thought Issy incapable of lying but I understood, in the way recognition surfaced on her face, then dove, that she was keeping a secret. I opened my mouth to insist she tell me everything right now but Marta had planted her walking stick into the land and was pointing out a red-tailed hawk—Buteo jamaicensis. We had no choice but to catch up and stand with her as it sailed over the ridge. “And what,” she said, “do trees do that’s so special?”

  “Perform photosynthesis?”

  “Confirmed, they produce their food in the form of carbohydrates through the process of photosynthesis.” Marta looked up to the top of the hill, then back to us. “Do you understand? The fungi piggybacks on the root system of the plant. That’s how it gets its food. It’s symbiosis.”

  “From the Greek?”

  Marta looked pleased. “Yes indeed, meaning ‘living together.’ You speak Greek, Saskia?”

  “No. My father loves the Greeks.” Issy looked up; she’d never heard me mention him. I took Marta by the arm and escorted her up to the ridgeline, asking the names of all the plants we passed. Elderberries were properly called Sambucus canadensis, which can be used as a cold remedy (when combined with mint leaves and yarrow blossoms). Then came yarrow, Achillea millefolium, which I made sure to pronounce the way Marta did, just loud enough so that Issy could hear.

  From the lookout at the top, the lake had become an outline. In fact, we could count six lakes between us and the horizon. Mountains brushed the sky; distant houses, small as matchboxes, were sprinkled across the foothills. A fog shifted, cloaking and revealing the miniature world below. A wind cut over us, bringing up the wet lake funk that had become familiar. A motorboat puttered. I searched for a sign of you—or maybe you, yourself, standing far below in one of the meadows, flailing your arms like someone on a desert island—but of course it was only pine needles and cabins down there, and the lake, and the boats.

  “Well, howdy.” Butterfly had emerged from the forest at the top of the ridgeline. From behind her came a cross-looking Cornelia. But Cornelia’s face lifted at the sight of Issy.

  “Out for a walk?” Marta’s voice bloomed with approval.

  “My girl and I needed alone time.”

  Cornelia went to Issy. Butterfly wore a crown of cornflowers, and carried a second one on her wrist. I held out my hand. “Can I wear that?”

  “Oh of course, sweetie.” Butterfly placed it on my head. She lifted her eyes to the view. “Gosh, it’s pretty up here.”

  “Be careful back in those woods.” Marta did not approve of waxing poetic about the landscape; it was something to know, not admire.

  “Plenty of bears, I’ll bet.”

  “Two-hundred-foot cavern, cut right into the forest floor. A chasm, guess you might call it. You don’t break your neck on the way down, you’ll starve to death stuck down at the bottom. You’ll scream, and no one’ll hear you. Not many folks up here, looking for lost hikers.” With that, Marta wandered away toward the edge of the ridge.

  “You ever miss California?” I asked Butterfly, whose eyes had drawn wide. Cornelia’s version of California was outdoor malls, endless sunshine, trees laden with free oranges. “Cornelia sure does.”

  “Really?”

  I lowered my voice. “Don’t tell her I told you, but she wants to go back.”

  “She said that?” I had her attention now.

  “Well, it’s where her dad lives.”

  Butterfly’s mouth clamped down. It was the first time she didn’t look beautiful.

  “You know the other day Philip said he wanted to paint you.”

  “Really?”

  “He said you’ve got rare cheekbones. You should tell him if you’re interested.” I let that sit, then added, “In having him paint you, I mean.”

  Her hand went to her cheek. “He’s, like, famous, right?” Now that we were talking, she seemed more like a babysitter than a mom.

  “So what makes the mycorrhizal relationship mutually beneficial?” Marta commanded our attention. She was met with blank looks by Cornelia and Butterfly, and explained the day’s lesson, then circled her attention back to me. “Surely the tree is getting something out of the deal?”

  “Well, fungi grow in the ground,” I said. “And the tree has roots in the ground. So I’d guess that the fungi assist the roots somehow.”

  “You are correct, Saskia. I’m glad you’ve dispensed with pretending you don’t know the answers.” Marta wiggled one hand on top of the other. “When fungi form a mantle on the roots of a plant, not only do they get food from that plant, but they lend themselves to that plant. They extend that plant’s root space, which means the plant gets more water and nutrients than it would on its own. You see? They’re more than friends. They need each other to survive.”

  She unzipped her backpack and handed over well-wrinkled plastic bags and small knives. “We’re looking for maitakes today. Grifola frondosa. Perhaps they’ll be up here, nestled into the bases of their preferred mycorrhizal partners—oaks, most commonly, in these parts, Quercus velutina.” She regarded each of us then carefully. “Now, what am I going to say about safety?”

  “Don’t eat anything,” Issy said, “because it can kill you.” Cornelia shrunk back in a satisfying tremble.

  Marta went squarely into the woods. We wandered behind her, under the cover of the trees, keeping an eye out for that cavern she’d mentioned. For a time all we could hear was the padding of our own footsteps, and the high chirp of a bird Marta stopped to tell me was an osprey—Pandion haliaetus—cresting over the ridge. Sometimes we came together, in pairs or trios, sometimes we wandered alone.

  Issy drew close. She pointed down. Marta was right—there, cut into the forest floor, was a secret mouth of rock, maybe ten feet across at its greatest width, so dark inside that it was impossible to see the bottom. She whispered, “Ben acts weird around you because of the prophecy.” But when I opened my mouth to ask for more, her back was already a closed door.

  69

  Sekou shrieks, and there’s a torrent of barks, and Issy’s laugh. Leaf shadows filigree across the ceiling. A blast of sun.

  I’m at Ben’s.

  The thought is a glimmer until it explodes into all that will surely go wrong and has already. For one, it’s clearly past eight. At Grandmother’s, I’d guess eight thirty, but everything flar
es new—Acer saccharum, the grand sugar maple just outside my window; the cirrus clouds above; the angle of the sun. I haven’t slept past six in years. My gorge rises. Here comes the rush of what I know is just the blood in my ears, I know this, I know this, but it boils up like the lonely howl of the whole needy world pressing in against the too-bright pane at my head and I remember what I’ve done, how back at Grandmother’s, first Xavier came, with news that Abraham is back, or he isn’t, but whether it’s him or not, someone knows someone knows—

  But, no: you opened the front door. Sekou saw you, didn’t he? He gave me that smile when I asked. And then: Topsy on the couch for him to find. How else could Topsy have gotten there? You wanted me to come along with Xavier and the rest.

  So, then, deep breaths. Stop my rushing heart.

  Five things I see: dusty gingham curtains; too-shiny paint on the ceiling; my worn sweatpants; my flimsy fingernails; my yellow split ends.

  Four things I touch: the cotton of the quilt; my lips against each other; the cool of the window; my heart, thrumming in the cradle of my skin and bones.

  Three things I hear: Sekou’s bubbling giggles; the dogs barking; a red-breasted nuthatch—Sitta canadensis—tooting its insistence.

  Two things I smell: bacon, mildew.

  One thing I taste: the sourness of my tongue.

  So, then, Home. Today, Home. I rise—and then, oh, the Mother.

  The Mother makes it another thing I’ve only just remembered. There’s so much more to keep track of in this great outside. Back down into the bed. She was fed upon arrival, her leaven made before we went our separate ways—me into the older daughter’s childhood bedroom; Sekou and Issy into the younger one’s; Cornelia and Xavier onto the couches in the great room downstairs—but don’t get distracted, the Mother needs attention and day shine is burning and the others will think they can do it but they’ll ruin her. Cornelia will mess with her. Cornelia will ruin her. So, up again. Steady my feet onto the ground.

  The name Anna is embroidered on nearly everything in here—on Raggedy Ann’s stained pinafore, and a creased handkerchief, and a bit of cross-stitch framed, lopsided, over the bed. A high school transcript, five years old, hangs on the corkboard over the desk; Little Anna is, apparently, not so little anymore.

  There are country touches all over the second floor—a butter crock in a hallway tableau, calico pieced in hearts on the bathroom hand towels, and “Home Sweet Home” in an embroidery hoop hung over the stairs. How long ago did Shelley-Ann leave? What made her finally do it? Was it Jenny?

  Stop. Just stop.

  Playmobil figurines are piled at the bottom of the stairs. Sekou is their giant, sorting the people from the cars, the beds, the trees. Out Ben’s log-trimmed windows, the view is spectacular, land falling away in three directions. I remember now when Ben bought Shelley-Ann this house, his steady breath during one of his phone calls, the mention of the blueness of a lake below, as though I would agree that if it was truly as blue as he said it was, of course he should marry her.

  The boy lobs himself into me. There’s no choice but to pull him into my arms. He’s pantsless and proud. “I peed in the potty!” He presses close, sucking on the foot of a Playmobil ambulance driver, which I make a solid effort to admire. In the kitchen, Cornelia tells the rest of her story: “So then Eric is hanging from one arm, one foot on the ladder, and the girls and I…” and Jenny emerges in polyester slacks and chalky cosmetics.

  “You sleep okay?” I ask.

  Her curls, crispy with product, boing when she nods her head. “Want to play some more, buddy?” She puts her hand on Sekou’s back. He buries his face in my neck. Good boy.

  I carry Sekou toward the others. Ben must be tending to the dogs, but the rest of them are in the kitchen, Cornelia in running clothes, having already put in her exercise (of course). Their plates show a finished feast: waxy yolks, grapefruit rinds, bowls swiped clean of yogurt. They pretend to be fine with my nightgown and unbrushed hair. I want to yell that I never sleep this late—I am ever up with the dawn! Sekou’s finger bores through the buttonhole at my neck and reminds me who I want to be.

  I say, “Did everyone sleep well?”

  I say, “Looks delicious.”

  I say, “We should probably get going.”

  “Oh, you’re leaving?” Jenny’s followed me in. “I hoped you’d stay for at least another night. I think you’re all lovely.”

  Cornelia smiles. “Well, isn’t that nice!” But you know what she means if you know her.

  “Ben says you have business in town. The closest hotel is twenty-five miles. Can’t I convince you to stay?”

  I can’t help myself. “I think Ben’s the one who needs convincing.”

  Jenny’s pink hands fret over themselves. “What is your business here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Xavier lifts an eyebrow.

  Issy pulls Sekou from my arms: “Let’s get some fresh underpants on you.”

  Cornelia scrapes the breakfast plates.

  But I’m not afraid. “Have you heard of Home?”

  Cornelia says my name.

  “What home?”

  “It’s this place nearby, where—”

  “The summer camp?” Jenny says. “Where you met Ben?”

  “Sure. A summer camp.” So that’s why he picked her; too young to have heard the stories.

  Ben’s voice is harsh in the far doorway. “Jenny, I thought you’d left for work.” The dogs swarm behind him like one enormous beast, but they stay behind the lintel as he moves toward her, steps heavy. “You don’t want to be late.”

  She pops a smile. I want to tell her not to perform for a man who barks orders, but she smacks a kiss onto his lips, then swivels to Sekou, grousing on his mother’s lap—he has no interest in fresh underpants, thank you very much. Jenny tells him she hopes they’ll get to play again soon, and it stills him, and I like her a little better.

  She gathers her purse and a Tupperware salad from the fridge. Sekou reaches his arms back up to me and Issy turns him over with a sigh. I bathe in the wash of the boy’s puppy breath while Jenny’s lips meet Ben’s yet again. She grabs her keys. She waves. Ben whistles to the dogs and they rush out into the open day. I wonder if Jenny likes them against her legs. Ben’s got his own van out there, with competent lettering on the side: HVAC Services. Heating. Cooling. Heat Pumps. Plumbing. He stands at the window, watching his animals move onto the land.

  “How old,” I say, “is that girl?”

  He wheels around. He looks to Cornelia while pointing my direction with a shaking finger. “Tell me every single thing she said.”

  “That poor little thing wanted to know about Home,” I say, before Cornelia sells me out.

  “Don’t talk about Home.” Ben’s hands curl into fists. “To me or Jenny or anyone else. Jesus Christ, are you fucking stupid?” The little guy slips off my hip and dashes back to the trove of toys. Issy goes after him, but not before she glowers at us. Ben is already yelling. “You know how hard I’ve worked to make sure no one around here thinks about that hellhole anymore, let alone associates me with it?”

  Cornelia crosses her arms. “Well, of course people remember. It’s seven point two miles away and it was only twenty-five years ago.”

  “The people who remember keep their mouths fucking shut.”

  “It’s a cliché,” I say, “a man your age with a girl like that.”

  Ben lifts one finger. “Do. Not. Talk. About. Jenny.”

  I don’t let my gaze waver. I drain the fight out of him. He leans over the countertop, hands spread wide, then looks up at me again, and oh, those eyes. “Saskia, you of all people. You don’t really think Abraham’s alive…?”

  My heart flops as Ben says that name, as though his words have made things real. He frowns, briefly, in concern at my response. I forgot. I forgot how well he sees me. I brush past the table, past him, straight to the Mother.

  Xavier says, “Look, Ben, none of us want to go ba
ck up there.”

  Flour, spoons, water, thermometer. Let the grown-ups talk.

  “The sixth letter said it has to be all five of us.” Panic laces Cornelia’s voice; on the drive up, she was so sure we didn’t have a thing to worry about.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Ben says.

  Issy storms back into the room. “Ben, you should want, more than anything, to make sure Abraham isn’t the one up there, sending us those letters. You think showing up will ruin you? If he makes good on his threat, that will be what ruins you. Let’s drive up there. We can end this today.”

  But Ben grabs his keys. “In a day or two, when you realize it’s someone messing with you, you’ll go home. But this is my home. I have a life here. I’m not gambling everything for six creepy notes, just so you can drag me back into your bullshit.”

  “Our bullshit?” Xavier’s enraged, a rarity. “I’m sorry, last I checked you were in that cabin, too. In fact, if I remember correctly, you were the one who held—”

  “Let it rest! We’re free. Why can’t you people just let it fucking rest?” Ben is already out the door.

  70

  Marta and Issy and Cornelia and Butterfly and I gobbled omelets dripping farmer’s market cheddar, served beside the gathered bounty of the last of the season’s fiddleheads. Maitakes were nowhere to be found, but the tight fern spirals—the tips of Matteuccia struthiopteris, ostrich ferns—made up for it. They tasted obscenely of the color green. Grease slicked our lips. One bite and appetite was an old friend. Teeth and stomach and fork and butter and salt and cheese and egg and parsley and Ceylon tea and turbinado sugar and the tips of brand-new plants, unfurling on the beds of our tongues.

  71

  Maine teems by. Acer saccharum, Cardinalis cardinalis, house, flash of lake, hill, Betula papyrifera—but they pass so much faster than words can muster, a rapid jumble of a countryside we once knew. We bank right, and Cornelia’s GPS tells us to join the road we are already on. I’d close my eyes but then every bit of me would be hurtling without remembering why.