by Beth Neff
Grace curses under her breath, clearly impatient with the idea of going back out to find the parts number. Cassie knows Grace has been working in this direction all day, guiding her activities, and theirs, so she could get the parts before the tractor dealership closes today and be ready to start on repairs first thing in the morning. She mentioned it more than once back in the tomato field, seeming intent on keeping everything moving to prevent her plans from becoming sidetracked. She had said that the next planting of the greens that are the farm’s mainstay will be delayed, a result she was clearly unhappy about, if she couldn’t get the tiller back in action quickly.
“Well, do you at least have the manual in here? I could take it out with me, or maybe just take it to Mike and he can help me figure it out.”
The tone of the words is stinging, and Cassie sees Donna’s jaw go tight, hears the jarring clatter of the pan as it hits the table just a little too hard, a plop of batter climbing the side and curling back in. Cassie hates that kind of voice and wonders if Donna does, too. Grace is waving her hand as if to try to erase her sharpness, but when she speaks again, her words sound almost whiney to Cassie, limply imitating the apology she claims to intend.
“I’m sorry, Donna, but it’s just a priority issue. You’re baking a cake, and I’ve been waiting on this for two days.”
Cassie moves as quickly as she can, scurries over to the sink and washes the sticky icing off her hands, barely wipes them on the handtowel and is back across the room, pulling a tattered booklet with a faded orange cover from the narrow space between the napkin holder and the wall where everything on the table has been pushed by their cooking activities.
Her voice is almost a whisper as she hands the book to Grace. “ST 47.”
Grace takes the book, frowns at Cassie curiously. “What?”
Cassie’s hand goes directly to the end of the ponytail hanging over her shoulder, her jerky movements twirling it in nervous knots around her fingers. “It’s written in section six dash eleven. It says your gearbox is model number ST 47.” She gestures toward the book, her pleading eyes urging Grace to check the information.
Now Donna has turned and is watching them. Grace looks toward her, and Donna shrugs, cocks her head, raises her eyebrows. Grace still holds the manual in her hand but doesn’t open it. “What else did it say?”
Cassie looks to Donna for a moment, swallows uncomfortably, tries to imagine how she’s going to get the words out of her mouth even though she remembers them clearly. She closes her eyes so she won’t have to see Grace’s face frowning at her and pretends to read the words as if they are streaming across the inside of her eyelids.
“Um, it said that a squeak could be a worn universal joint, or it might mean the lift stop needs to be adjusted if it’s happening when the tiller is idle and lifted, or it could just be low oil in either the central drive unit or the side pan, and both of them take 90 EP gear oil.”
Cassie thinks she might just sink into the floor. She opens her eyes but keeps them lowered to avoid Grace’s expression. She doesn’t know if Grace will be mad that she read the manual or think she is just trying to be a smart aleck—that’s what Gordon always called her when she told him about things she read until she finally stopped telling him at all. When Cassie dares a glimpse, Grace is still just staring down at the manual, hasn’t opened it, though it appears to hold some mysterious interest for her. Suddenly, Donna is right beside Cassie and has reached out to take the manual out of Grace’s hand as if to wake her from a reverie.
“Wow, did you remember all that just from skimming the manual when you were waiting for me?” Donna asks.
Cassie nods, shrugs, and turns back toward the table to finish the icing. Grace is still standing just inside the door, both tongue-tied and paralyzed, until she seems to come to and shakes her head a little. “So, I guess I could try the oil and adjusting the lift stop and maybe check for any visible wear on the universal joint. Does that sound about right?”
Cassie smiles a little, looks down, nods her head.
“I guess I’ll get right on that,” Grace says, with only a trace of sarcasm in her voice. She looks at Donna but gets no further response, shakes her head some more, and turns abruptly to leave, letting the door slam behind her.
When Cassie looks up at her questioningly, Donna appears stern and speaks as if she wants to be sure Cassie is paying attention. “Cassie.”
“Yes?”
“You’re going to make us wonder how we ever got along without you.”
IT’S ALL UNBEARABLE, every single minute of it. The garden, god, how Lauren hates the garden. And the group sessions, stupid Ellie thinking she’s god’s gift to the world. But these meals have got to be the worst. All the forced cheer, all the . . . togetherness. And the women acting like no one has ever eaten before, like they actually invented vegetables or something. Maybe Lauren could just refuse to show up, refuse to eat. If she starved herself, they’d have to take her to the hospital and then at least she wouldn’t be here any more. The idea is mildly attractive, and Lauren promises herself to give it a bit more thought.
If she sees a jar of peanut butter on the table one more time, she is going to scream. What is it with them and peanut butter? Donna keeps saying, “If you don’t like that, Lauren, you’re welcome to have some peanut butter.” Isn’t this some kind of abuse Lauren could use against them?
Nobody gets it. Lauren doesn’t belong here. She tried to tell that Tracy Hughes again when she was here, but that woman is the worst of all.
She had told Lauren, “Honey, you got it all mixed up, what you’re entitled to and what you deserve. Nobody is entitled to what you think everybody owes you, and this is exactly what you deserve.” Lauren has no idea what the hell the woman was talking about, but she knows it wasn’t meant to be nice. Aren’t they supposed to be nice to her? Aren’t they supposed to treat her with some kind of respect?
Oh, if only she could talk to her dad. He’d have a shit fit if he saw the work they are supposed to do, and he’d have Ellie and her high and mighty ideas so tied up in knots, she wouldn’t be able to speak for a week. Lauren’s dad doesn’t like women in charge. He doesn’t even really like Lauren’s mother when it comes right down to it, sees her as weak and clingy and dependent. Which she is. He doesn’t know Lauren saw him that time with the woman from his office when they were coming out of that expensive Italian restaurant downtown. She has tried not to think about it, never told anybody, can’t imagine what made her think of it just now. Lauren doesn’t exactly blame him, but she’d kill Jason if he ever cheated on her. She wonders what Jason is doing right now, has to stop her mind from dredging up a list of all the girls he could be hanging out with while Lauren is stuck here with a bunch of dykes and juvenile delinquents.
She doesn’t belong here. How pathetic is it when your best option for an ally is a homeless drug addict? Well, she sure did get Sarah’s attention with the Adderall. Oh yeah. She’s going to have that girl in the palm of her hand, no problem. Once an addict, always an addict. Right, Mom?
Lauren looks up from her plate, squinting her eyes as the lights suddenly go off. Oh god, what now? This place is about one tiny step away from being little house on the prairie. The loss of electricity would definitely send it over the edge.
But then Cassie is coming through the door from the kitchen carrying what looks like a chocolate cake, and for a second, Lauren can’t take her eyes off of it. The flames from the lit candles are flickering against Cassie’s smooth skin, the tiny sparks reflecting in her eyes as she carries the cake into the dining room, moving almost like a dancer around the table in a wide circle so as not to trip over the chairs. Cassie surprises Lauren by passing her right by and, instead, placing the cake ceremoniously in front of Grace, retreating to her chair like a browbeaten servant. Grace seems surprised, too, sits back in her seat as if the cake represents some
threat, and the look on her face, clearly lit by the candles in the darkened room, is peevish. Lauren didn’t know they’d also be celebrating Grace’s birthday, and though Grace doesn’t seem all that happy to be included in the celebration, Lauren is even less thrilled about it. And why do they have to do this right now? She hasn’t had time to prepare.
Now, Ellie has gotten up and is opening a drawer in the hutch behind Grace’s chair. She pulls out what at first looks like a pile of cardboard, but turns out to be birthday cards she has clearly made herself and hands one to each of them, Sarah first, then Lauren and then, almost hesitantly, Grace. Lauren’s has a drawing of a hummingbird hovering in front of a red blossom on it and, even though it looks like it was just done with magic marker on cardstock, Lauren has to admit that it’s not half bad. Inside, the words, evenly spaced across the page in fancy writing, each letter a different color, say, “Happy Birthday, Lauren. Thanks for giving us the chance to celebrate you. I am honored to know you. Love, Ellie.”
Lauren doesn’t know what to think. She wants the pounding in her heart to feel familiar, like the rage she is so used to, but this is a feeling she’s not sure she recognizes. Whatever it is, she’s not going to let it get to her. This is how they win, and it’s just like she tried to tell Sarah—if you aren’t careful, you can get sucked right in. She closes the card and turns it face down, slips in under her napkin so she can intentionally/accidentally leave it behind. She hears Ellie’s voice as if from under water saying, “Do all three of you guys want to blow out the candles, or should we just let Grace do it?”
Before anyone has a chance to answer though, there is a loud screech and Jenna has shoved her chair back from the table, jumped up from her seat, nearly tipping the chair over, and rushed out of the room, the front screen door wrenched open with such force that it bangs against the side of the house, slams shut with a solid thwack.
Nobody speaks or moves for a long moment, and when Ellie finally rises, clearly intending to follow Jenna out, Grace places a hand on her shoulder, pushes the cake toward Donna with the other, and gets up herself and leaves the room.
Lauren doesn’t know what was supposed to happen next, other than eating cake, but it’s obviously not going to happen now. Though a part of her is pissed at Jenna, hates the way the girl always figures out how to get all the attention, Lauren quickly decides that this is perfect, suits her needs exactly.
And besides, it has given her an idea. She lifts her napkin and takes out the birthday card, thumbs the edge without really looking at the drawing, her thoughts beginning to spin. Before anyone says another word, Lauren, too, has risen from her chair and slipped out of the room.
THURSDAY, JUNE 14
“I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVEN’T SEEN A GUY FOR, LIKE, OVER a month. I feel like I’m going to go crazy. Isn’t that driving you nuts?”
Jenna shrugs, keeps working. It doesn’t do any good to answer anyway. Lauren will just keep talking.
Lauren is sitting next to the row, but she’s not weeding. She seems engrossed in picking the last remnants of nail polish off her thumb, oblivious to the fact that Jenna is gradually moving away from her as she frees adolescent beets from a near mat of ground ivy and lamb’s-quarters.
Lauren is careful about turning her body in minute increments so as to catch the best angle of the tanning sun. Her legs are stretched out in front of her, knees bent to prevent her calves from touching the dirt, and she has coated her skin with some kind of oil. Jenna tries to picture the mother who would have packed suntan oil and nail polish when she was helping her daughter prepare for a prison farm.
“At least at detention, we got to catch glimpses of them, you know? Like at meals or headed out to the basketball courts. They were all pretty scrungy but still better than nothing, don’t you think? Not that I’d ever really do anything with anyone except Jason, but it’s kind of fun just to window shop, you know? It’s not like the guys don’t do the same thing, even worse,” Lauren says emphatically.
Jenna is barely listening. She is having trouble believing that the two of them are in the same place at the same time, that Lauren is trying to have a conversation with her. Jenna cannot figure out why Lauren seeks her out, follows her around.
Jenna had seen Lauren at detention, immediately placed her in the category of lifters since she obviously reeked none of the oniony, yeasty smell of hopelessness that hovered around the druggies or the other system rats like herself. Jenna has never even spoken to a girl like Lauren before, never wanted to be a girl like her either, couldn’t have imagined herself setting foot in Abercrombie or Hollister, even if she’d had the money. But she still couldn’t help feeling a little satisfied when her own real-life hard core status made detention feel almost like a vacation and gave her exactly the right skills for negotiating her position there. In fact, she had felt an odd and surprising pity for the girls like Lauren, the rich girls. It was like entering a foreign country with the wrong currency and no known exchange rate. Whatever might have been valuable on the outside was just a burden in there. The grayish globs of food must have seemed that much more unappetizing, the military discipline that much harder to tolerate, the urine and vomit-permeated bathroom smell that much more nauseating.
Lauren is now talking about her boyfriend, how they were always forging permission slips so they could get out of school, pawning the stuff Lauren stole and using the money to buy iPods and other MP3 players that they could sell for twice the price they’d paid. Lauren sounds almost angry when she says, “The stupid police never found out a thing about that. And I didn’t tell them anything either.” She laughs a little maliciously. “I bet Jason was scared shitless I was going to blow it all. He should be down on his knees thanking me for that, don’t you think?”
Jenna still isn’t answering but Lauren doesn’t notice, is busy rearranging her body, shaking her hair back out of her face.
“Why’d you run off like that?”
At first, Jenna doesn’t catch what Lauren has said, having ignored most of what came before. She is just about to ask her to repeat it when it dawns on her what Lauren has asked.
Jenna decides not to answer.
“Did you hear me?” Lauren asks impatiently, rather loudly. “I asked why you ran away from the birthday party. I mean, it was great. Perfect. You totally screwed it up, which is fine by me. I just wondered why.”
“Yeah, I heard you.” Jenna stands up to stretch, bends again to pick up the hoe she’d brought out but didn’t need after all, and notices Grace weeding infant corn in the next field. Jenna takes a deep breath and heads in that direction, stepping over Lauren’s hand in the dirt. “You better get to work,” she says and moves away.
Jenna is heading toward where Grace is working, thinking maybe she should tell Grace that Lauren is slouching again since Grace seems to be the only one who can successfully scare Lauren into helping out once in awhile, but at the last minute, she changes her mind. Instead of turning left at the end of the row, she turns right, in the direction of the river.
She hears the sound of the water in her head even when she isn’t there, lies in her bed at night and pictures what it must look like in the moonlight, wishes she knew which animals come to drink, what different birds there might be after the sun has gone down. She likes the songs, especially the orioles, and is hoping to learn some of them. She had no idea before she came here that all these different kinds of birds existed, probably wouldn’t have known the difference between a starling and a crow, and feels that tightness in her chest, a surge of sparking anger in her veins to think of it.
Jenna goes to the river to rest her heart.
She has what she knows is a completely irrational and unfounded fear for her heart. Sometimes it’s as if her heart is literally being pulled out of her chest, stretching her veins and arteries to the point of snapping. She is overcome with the rock-hardness of it, feels it pushing agains
t the base of her throat, straining the muscles in her neck, blocking the signals to her brain. Meals seem to be the worst, even more than the counseling sessions, and the birthday party a couple of nights ago had sent her plunging toward the river.
She knows exactly when it started. She must have been about thirteen, old enough and long enough in the system to usually be second in command behind the foster parents. She remembers that night as clearly as if the images were tattoed on her forehead. They’d been watching some show about Siamese twins, all the bizarre pictures of babies conjoined at the chest or the head or the side because of some case in England where they’d done surgery to separate a pair and one had died. The weaker one was living off of the stronger one and didn’t have her own aorta and one of the kids had asked Mo what an aorta was and she’d told him to ask Jenna. From the diagram on the TV, Jenna was able to understand that it was the main artery in the heart and had tried to explain that you can’t live without one because it gives the rest of your body blood. Clay, this weak little boy whose hair was so blond, it looked white, adding to his strange little-old-man appearance, asked why the girls couldn’t share their aorta. Jenna was at a loss how to answer, frustrated that she couldn’t just watch the show without constantly being pestered, and turned to look at Mo and there she was, pounding her chest with her fist, her eyes wide, gasping for breath, her slippered feet kicking on the footrest of her recliner in little baby movements like someone just learning to swim.
Jenna had done the right things, she is still sure. She called 911, lowered the chair into its full reclining position and pressed against Mo’s forehead and lifted her chin to open her air passage. She was still breathing, or Jenna thought she was, and she didn’t know CPR and probably wouldn’t have been strong enough to perform it on Mo anyway, but she figured she was helping by herding the kids out to the kitchen and opening a box of cereal, getting out bowls and milk for them so they’d be distracted by a snack. The siren, of course, brought them all running, and Jenna had needed to herd them out again, screaming at them to get ready for bed while the paramedics tried to revive Mo, struggled with her enormous weight to get her strapped to a stretcher and out to the ambulance. It wasn’t until the next day that Jenna found out she’d died on the way to the hospital, had never even been admitted. Jenna hadn’t thought to call the hospital, had no idea what to do at all besides get the other kids ready for school in the morning and then sit and watch game shows all morning until sometime after lunch when the social worker showed up and said Mo had died.
