Flower Moon

by Gina Linko

“Not always. Mary Anning used to hide your socks in her litter box,” Tempest responded. Molly-Mae and I laughed at that. But my insides did a little twist. I didn’t want to think about Mary Anning. I scratched the little kitten’s neck and a purr rumbled in her throat.

  “That’s right. You named your cat after a scientist,” Molly-Mae said.

  Tempest nodded. “Yep. Mary Anning discovered the first dinosaur fossils.”

  “This one’s name is Licorice,” Molly-Mae offered, plopping a plate of hash browns in front of me. “Pa Charlie rescued her at our last stop, near Macon. He knows how much I love cats and, well, she’s our new addition.” She grabbed the frying pan and scooped up a few slices of bacon on her spatula, adding some to both our plates.

  “So, how is Mary Anning?” Molly-Mae asked.

  “She died,” Tempest said.

  “Oh! I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “These hash browns are my favorite thing on earth,” I said to Molly-Mae, hoping to change the subject.

  Tempest said, “Of course, Tally is never going to apologize for what happened with Mary Anning. Are you, Tally?”

  Molly-Mae looked at me all open-mouthed.

  “I didn’t kill the cat. She was old and died,” I said. “Jeez, Tempest. You make me sound so evil.” I busied myself by scratching Licorice’s belly.

  “So you aren’t apologizing?” Tempest asked.

  “For what, exactly?” We’d been through this a dozen times.

  I waited for Tempest to continue the argument, but she didn’t.

  I took a bite of bacon and offered my bacon-greased fingertips to Licorice to lick. “Does Mama have a tattoo?” I asked.

  “What? No!” Tempest said. She eyed the kitten, who had jumped onto my shoulder and was biting at my ponytail. Tempest rolled her eyes. “You know? I need to go work on my … thing,” she said. “Thanks for breakfast, Molly-Mae.”

  “Wait,” I said, pulling the cat back into my lap.

  “What?” Tempest asked.

  I wanted to talk to my sister about what I’d found. I did. But looking at her pinched face, I stopped myself. She didn’t want to spend her day interrogating the carnies about a few words scrawled on the back of Mama’s paper chain. Tempest surely had some gadgets that needed building, an invention that needed a blueprint. Plus, she still hated me because of Mary Anning.

  “What are you working on now, anyway?” I asked lamely.

  “A liar gauge.” Tempest shrugged like she couldn’t be bothered to explain it.

  Suddenly, I was tired of the work that it took to be interested in my sister. She turned to leave, and I let her.

  I took Licorice out of my lap and placed her on the ground, where she immediately waged a battle against a roly-poly bug. She batted at it with her paw, then backed off, tail all puffed up, courage spent, until she found her druthers to attack it again.

  I tried just to watch Licorice, and not to remember Mary Anning’s death. Mary Anning had been an ugly cat with one milky, blind eye, and she used to love waging war on a cookie crumb or an errant grain of rice. She’d skitter across the kitchen floor after whatever she’d found like it was all that mattered to her in the world.

  “You got a funny look on your face, Tally Jo,” Molly-Mae said.

  I didn’t respond.

  “You’re not going to tell me what happened with the cat?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to tell Molly-Mae. It was too sad.

  I’d found Mary Anning curled up next to the chicken coop, and I’d known right away she was nearing the end. Dr. Fran had warned us it was coming. So I scooped Mary Anning up and took her to Dr. Fran at the shelter. I stayed and comforted Mary Anning until she was gone, even though she’d never been my cat, really. I didn’t go get Tempest. I didn’t call her. I handled it myself.

  Tempest had loved that cat so much, and I had sheltered her from the pain of watching her die.

  Tempest didn’t see it that way.

  She was still mad at me about it. Blamed me for … whatever.

  But when I thought of those last hours, of Mary Anning struggling for breath, the ugliness of it, the choking sadness of the whole thing, I was still glad Tempest didn’t have to witness it.

  Some things about this life were so bad, so god-awful, so final.

  I knew Tempest was mad at me about it. Still.

  But the thing was, I’d do it again.

  8

  I spent the morning trying to teach Licorice to shake and sit, to roll over and speak. It went about as well as teaching a pig to sing.

  I was just wasting time, letting Tempest cool off. I planned on speaking to her on our way to St. Simons. It was always a long haul, traveling down the Georgia coast near into Florida. I’d have hours to get her on board with my sleuthing scheme, to make a plan for interrogating the carnies and getting to the bottom of why Aunt Grania left Mama.

  But Tempest had other ideas. For the first time in the history of the universe, Tempest chose not to ride with Pa and me. Instead, she ducked into Molly-Mae’s truck at the last minute, saying something about how Molly-Mae had a podcast on pie-baking they were dying to listen to.

  Of course, Digger took the opportunity to jump into Pa Charlie’s backseat with me and talk my ear off for four hours straight. I missed Tempest the whole time, and stared out the window wondering how we could ever get back to the old us. TallyandTempest. No spaces.

  It was evening when our caravan of trailers, trucks, and motor homes pulled into the fairgrounds next to the scraggly little St. Simons Island Airport, which housed approximately two airplanes and a collection of antique kites.

  I felt my heavy heart lift, just a little. St. Simons had always been one of my favorite stops with the carnival. Mama always called the downtown area, with all its old-fashioned buildings and its ancient lighthouse, “quaint” and “charming.” Daddy said he loved it here because people hadn’t quite learned to hurry up on St. Simons, because there wasn’t any better place to go. We usually stayed near two weeks on the island, our longest stop of the summer.

  The chore of setting up the carnival unfolded all around us, the scent of salt water in the evening air, the crunch of ground seashells mixed with the gravel on the midway.

  I loved setup. There was just something about the silent, hopeful movements of the carnies as they unrolled canvas tents, bolted together the carousel and the rest of the rides, and created something nearly magical where there’d just been nothing. It was almost enough to jostle me from my grumpy mood, like maybe I could leave all my problems on the mainland. Like here on the island Tempest and I would be together and just fine again, getting along as easy as biscuits and gravy.

  Like last summer. Like normal.

  Tempest stuck to helping with the rides mainly, doing some of the smaller work, once the big pieces had been put into place, and I naturally secured the animals into their stalls. Digger did his main job, which was to talk. That hadn’t changed.

  Would I go with him to visit the Fort Frederica graveyard? Did I believe in ghosts?

  Did I remember the year that we had climbed to the top of the lighthouse just as a lightning storm erupted over the sea?

  Could we visit the shell shop down by the pier one day so he could mail a souvenir to his mother?

  “Digger, don’t you ever get tired of talking?”

  “Tally, don’t you ever get tired of crabbing?” He cracked himself up at that, laughing his Digger laugh.

  I smiled even though I didn’t want to. It was just that kind of day.

  I found myself whistling Arnie’s harmonica tunes as Digger pounded in the iron spikes to use as foundation for the swinging gates of the animal stalls. I held the spike for his first couple of hits without him even asking. We had done this quite enough to get it right. I did notice, however, that this year he only had to hit those stakes three, maybe four times. Not ten or eleven like last year, or like I’d probably have to do.

  Digger wiped sweat from his brow, th
en asked, “What exactly is Tempest setting up to do?”

  I turned to follow Digger’s eyes. Sure enough, Tempest was talking with Pa Charlie, her hands waving through the air. I shrugged.

  As Fat Sam dumped another pile of stakes in front of Digger, he answered, “I heard she’s going to set up a booth.”

  I froze in place.

  “Maybe for her gadgets?” Digger asked me.

  I watched Fat Sam as he made his way back to setting up the Iron Witch, my mouth hanging open.

  Tempest doing a booth? It was like a punch to the gut, hearing this news from anyone but Tempest herself. I felt Digger’s eyes on me. So I tried to look like I didn’t care.

  Then Digger asked, “So what’re you going to do?”

  “What I always do,” I answered, annoyed. “Work the animal booth.”

  “Jeez, Tally, keep your shorts on. I was just asking.”

  “It sounds like you’re trying to say something.” I gave him the best skunk eye I could.

  “I would never do any such thing to Tally Trimble. I would never, ever take my life into my hands like that.” He smirked then, and I could only smirk back.

  Then he made his voice gentle. “What’s happened between you and your sister?”

  I sighed. So he’d noticed. “I don’t know, Digger.”

  He kept talking. “It’s just strange watching the two of you operate this year. Something’s off, ya know? Like you’re both dancing without a partner. Feels funny to have something between y’all.”

  “Will you just can it, Digger, all right?”

  “Jeez, Tally. I was just saying. It’s just what Fat Sam always said about you: you’re like two halves of a whole, ya know?”

  I couldn’t look Digger in the eye then, because I didn’t want him to see what that sentence did to me. It hurt me, like my breath had been stolen. I stood up and turned my back to Digger, busied myself studying my cuticles like they held the answers to the universe.

  Tempest was setting up her own carnival booth? For what?

  And if Digger could tell Tempest and me weren’t ourselves, well, that made it feel true. It made it real.

  It put a raw edge to my feelings, making them vulnerable and exposed.

  How had this all happened?

  Digger was right: I was without my other half. But that wasn’t quite right, though, was it? I mean, Tempest was more than that to me, because two halves of a whole implied an easy separation, when really, it was much more complicated than that.

  She was the butter on my toast, the sea to my shore, the stars in my night sky.

  “You okay, Tally?”

  “I’m fine, Digger Swanson. Give a girl a minute.” I was just coming to terms with the fact that what used to be between Tempest and me had been as strong and as unbreakable as an iron girder, but now, what was between us? A cobweb maybe. Broken by a breeze, a look, a word.

  I heard Digger’s footsteps behind me and I tensed up, hoping he would have enough sense not to try and comfort me.

  “Tally?” he said, standing right behind me, and for one terrible second I thought he was going to put his arm around me, and I didn’t think I could take that. I couldn’t take comfort from Digger Swanson. I had my pride.

  “I’m fine, Digger.”

  “You sure?”

  He moved a bit closer still.

  It made me want to throw a tantrum like I used to when I was four years old. Just scream and yell and roll around on the ground.

  “You know, it’s tough, Tally Jo, when things go a-changing.”

  “Yeah.” I hated the way my voice shook, and I wiped away one traitor tear that spilled down my cheek.

  “When my parents divorced, Tally Jo,” Digger said. “I got sadder than I think I ever been.”

  I turned to stare him down.

  “I ain’t sad, Digger.”

  “Okay.” Digger raised his eyebrows at me.

  “I’m not.”

  “Whatever you say, Tally Jo.”

  “I say I’m fine.”

  “Then you’re fine.”

  I reached out and punched him right in the shoulder. He didn’t even bring up his other hand to rub it.

  “People who get all sad are just weaklings. I’m not a weakling.”

  Digger’s face blanched, and I realized how I had put my foot in my mouth. “Hey, wait.”

  “Forget it.” He turned to grab a bale of hay.

  “Really, I didn’t mean it. I just—”

  “It’s nothing, Tally, really.” Digger ignored me and went about his chores.

  Well, I’d certainly been a grade A slime to him. But why in the saltine cracker did he have to go prying like that?

  I stamped off and grabbed Antique from his aluminum trailer. He neighed a low thanks when I let him out of that closed-in space. I led him along the midway to the tent, stroking his mane, and confiding my frustrations without saying a word. Like a good friend, he whinnied in commiseration. I petted Antique’s nose, letting his presence comfort me. The sweet smell of fresh hay; the steady rise and fall of the horse’s ribs with each breath; the slow blink of his dark, intelligent eyes; and the sweet nudge of his nose into my shoulder when I hugged him around his neck. Animals didn’t need words.

  Digger and I made quick and silent work of readying the rest of stalls. Then we led the animals into their areas, spread the fresh hay, watered them. I left to let the goats into their pens and grab Cokes for Digger and me.

  When I came back, I found Digger lying in the wolf-pup stall, wrestling with them. “You’re gonna smell like dog,” I told him thoughtfully. I handed him his can of Coke.

  “Probably better than what I usually smell like,” he answered, letting one of the wolf pups bite on his raggedy hair. He pulled the tab off his Coke and drank a long pull. Then he waved his shirttail back and forth in front of another pup, tempting him into a game of tug-of-war. I opened the stall door and sat down with them, bringing the fourth pup into my lap and scratching him behind the ears. He had a gorgeous salt-and-pepper coat and the bluest eyes.

  “Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to know you during the school year, Tally,” Digger said, letting one of the pups chew on his index finger. “Bet you would keep me in line.”

  “Nah, I’d be too cool for you,” I joked.

  “You still the student council president and all that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tempest still your vice president?”

  “Nah.”

  “Well, I’m still a baseball stud.”

  “Right,” I teased. “So you say. You and Pa named these guys yet?”

  “Nah. We can’t get too attached, Tally. Your grandpa says we won’t be able to keep them after a few more weeks. They’ll have to go to a shelter or something, maybe get reintroduced to the wild.”

  “They still need names, for crikey’s sake.”

  “Pork Chop,” Digger announced, pointing at the one snarling at his T-shirt, his muzzle low to the ground. He was smaller than the others, but fierce. The pup hopped up and attacked Digger in one smooth motion. Digger laughed his grumbly laugh and let the pup gnaw at his T-shirt, his fingers, the bottom of his Coke can.

  The one that had been nipping Digger’s hair had stopped and was nosing through the hay, sniffing at everything. “Sniffer,” I proposed.

  The pup in my lap had curled himself up into a furry ball. “Cuddles, of course.” I scratched his ears, and he whimpered a little, moving his paws in his sleep.

  The other pup just sort of sauntered around the corners of the stall, keeping his space from everyone. “What’s that one like?” I asked.

  “That one’s always got her own ideas. She’s the one that snuck out in Cranston. Found her nosing around with the goats, the goats shivering like there was no tomorrow. The pup just fell asleep up in their hay bale, but the goats nearly died of fright. She’s an odd one.”

  I noticed she had a black spot on her forehead that the other pups did not. “It’s a
girl,” Digger said. “I think we’ll call her Tally.” And with that he started laughing like there wasn’t anything funnier in all the world. “She’s a strange bird. So we’ll call her Tally.”

  I got up and stomped right out of that stall, swinging the gate shut hard, with a loud clank. But I was smiling. Digger always got me, that was for sure. But I eyed the hose off to my left, and I grabbed that sucker and, let me tell you, Digger quit laughing pretty quick when I sprayed him down with some very cold water.

  Then it was my turn to cackle.

  9

  With Tempest off doing her own thing, I realized with a sinking feeling that this stay in St. Simons was indeed not going to be like any other summer. Tempest was busy and distant, working on her own things. I found myself thinking of the silhouette garland in our pod: the two girls, nearly identical, but not.

  I’d always known which girl I was: the one leaning into her sister, taking charge of the umbrella. That was me.

  I was the leader, the protector. So I would solve this mystery myself, keep us together. And since Digger was always following me around anyway, I enrolled him as my assistant in the Greenly Twin Mystery.

  I showed Digger the cut-out note on the back of the silhouette garland. He was thrilled, as Digger had no other mode of operation than one hundred percent enthusiasm.

  So, on that first full day on the island, after doing our animal-tent chores, Digger and I got to work. We sat in my pod, a notebook in my lap, and we planned our sleuthing.

  I explained, “Digger, we need to interrogate everybody. We gotta get them to tell us all they know about my mama and her sister.”

  “I’ll use my charm.”

  “Right.” I rolled my eyes. “We should make a list of people who could know things, starting with who’s been here forever.” I jotted down several names.

  “We should start with Arnie the Carnie,” Digger said.

  “Why him? Folks like your dad and Pa Charlie have been here the longest.”

  “Well, we have to work our way up to interrogating the likes of Pa Charlie. And we need to get a feeling for how deep this secret is. That kind of thing. Plus, Arnie’s got all those tattoos, and we know your mama wrote the word tattoo on there. Maybe he knows something.”