by T. Greenwood
“Who is that?” he asked.
“That is Alice Liddell.” She smiled. Her voice was trembling, like dry leaves in the wind. “The real Alice. She was Carroll’s muse.”
“What’s a muse?” Trevor asked.
“The one he who wrote his stories for. The one he wrote about.”
Trevor traced the picture of the girl who looked so much like Gracy.
“Every artist needs a muse,” she said and touched his hand. “And I think you may have found yours.”
He lifted up the book and flipped through the pages. Almost all of the pictures were of kids. Old-fashioned pictures. Serious faces and funny clothes.
“You can have this if you like,” she said.
“Really?” he asked.
The bell rang and the room started to fill with students.
“When do we get to use the darkroom?” he asked.
“Monday,” she said, moving away from him, returning to her desk. “I promise.”
The other students threw their backpacks down and started taking their seats. He had math, but he didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to deal with Mrs. Edam and geometry and worrying that Ethan Sweeney would do something to get him in trouble. He wanted to hear more about Lewis Carroll. About muses. But Mrs. D. said, “Trevor, you missed the last bell. You better hurry along. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
On Friday night, after he closed up the shop, Kurt dropped Pop’s groceries off at his house and told Pop that he and Elsbeth had plans that night so that he wouldn’t have to stay. He’d been by the house every night that week, but still had made no significant progress. Pop refused to throw anything away, and Kurt didn’t know what to do anymore. Billy had, as expected, refused to come. “It’s not your problem,” Billy had said. “It’s Pop’s problem. He’s a grown man.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything except help me with some of this legal stuff. You wouldn’t even have to see him.”
“Jesus, Kurt,” he’d said. “It’s like you don’t remember. Why is it so goddamn difficult for you to understand this?”
“I’m not defending Pop,” Kurt said quietly.
“Really? Because it kind of feels like you are.”
Kurt’s temples were throbbing.
“Do you remember that hunting trip?” Billy asked.
“Which one?” Kurt asked, knowing exactly which one. His head pulsed with pain.
Pop had taken Kurt on overnight hunting trips every fall as soon as he was old enough to lift a rifle to his shoulder, but Billy had always stayed home. Maury had a hunting shack in the woods up in the Northeast Kingdom not far from Lake Gormlaith that he let Pop use whenever he wanted to. They took sleeping bags and slept on cots. They ate out of cans: pork and beans and beef stew. They ate venison jerky and drank homemade root beer that they kept cold in a makeshift refrigerator made out of a rusted barrel through which the river ran icy cold this time of year. When Billy was about ten, he had pleaded with Pop to take him along as well. Billy had never expressed any interest in these trips, always preferring to stay behind with their mother. When they came back, most years with a deer splayed and tethered in the back of the truck, he would hide between their mother’s legs. But that particular year, Kurt remembered Billy suddenly wanting to be a part of this. Wanting to come along.
Most of these trips blurred together in Kurt’s memory: the smell of the fire in the camp wood stove, the chill of autumn air in striking contrast to the warm fire of the trees surrounding them. He remembered the hushed sounds of their footsteps, the startling crack of the gunshots, and the quiet sound of a deer’s body falling. He remembered the steam rising out of the bellies as his father field dressed the deer, the piquant stink of it. He recollected the hard cots, and the deep sleep that followed. He could remember the way his cheeks flushed with the warmth of the fire and the smell of his damp wool socks as they dried in the heat. Of course, there were particular moments that stood out: the year he got his first buck, Pop’s face beaming with pride, the swig of Jim Beam he’d offered him that night to celebrate. He also recalled the years they had come home empty-handed, his father driving silently, defeated the whole way back. And the year that Billy came along, the only year that Billy came along. Of course he remembered.
They had been out in the woods for two days without even catching a glimpse of a deer. Billy was getting restless. He was only ten. It was hard to be patient when you had only experienced the boredom of tracking and none of the thrill of sighting a deer. Billy was at least a hundred feet behind Kurt and Pop as they quietly made their way through the woods. And then suddenly Pop stopped, cocked his gun, and crack!
“Did you get one? Did you kill one, Pop?” Kurt asked. Behind them, Billy’s face was pale. His eyes were wide and terrified. Kurt suddenly knew that Billy probably shouldn’t have come.
Pop whooped and started to trudge through the wet leaves toward the fallen animal. Finally, realizing that his boys were not behind him, he hollered, “You kids gonna come help me with this or what?”
Billy shook his head, his eyes brimming with tears now. “I can’t,” he said quietly to Kurt.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Just come on.” He’d felt irritated with Billy then. His reluctance suddenly evoked not sympathy but annoyance.
When they got to the spot where the deer had fallen, his father looked up at them, grinning. “Billy Boy, how’d you like to help your pop dress this beauty?”
The deer was a buck, a whitetail. It lay on its back, its legs stiff. It was cold out, and their breath made clouds in the air. Billy walked obediently to where the dead animal lay. Pop dropped down to his knees and pulled his knife out of his pocket, showing Billy the blade. “First things first. You got to know how to properly use your knife. If you bust the bladder, it’ll contaminate the meat. This an art,” he said. “You’ve got to remember that.”
When he slit the deer’s lower belly, the smell was strong. Kurt was afraid to look at Billy. Billy, who carried spiders out of the bathroom rather than killing them. Billy who wept inconsolably when he finished reading Where the Red Fern Grows and sobbed through Old Yeller.
“You’ve got to tie off the rectum first,” Pop said, reaching into the deer and pulling out the lower intestines. Billy, who was trembling. Steam rose like ghosts out of the hot innards into the bright blue sky above them.
“Next, you need to slice into the breastbone and slit down the belly. Use your two fingers, like this, to guide the knife. Don’t go in too deep. Gotta be careful not to cut into the stomach or the intestines. No point in killing an animal if you go ruin the meat.”
Billy backed away from the deer and this grisly project, sitting down on a stump. His face had gone from white to green pretty quickly. He lowered his head.
“Buck up now,” Pop said, his brow furrowing angrily. “No time to be squeamish.”
Billy looked up dutifully.
“Now we’ve got to cut off the genitals,” he said, slicing again. Then he yanked off the testicles and held them up like some sort of prize.
Billy covered his mouth with his hand, retching, and Pop laughed. Billy was clearly trying hard not to vomit. His eyes were red and watery, his whole body racked with the effort.
“What you need, Billy Boy,” Pop said, winking, “are some of these.” And then he chucked the testicles at Billy. They hit Billy in the chest, and then after a moment of stunned silence, Billy was off and running, leaving a trail of vomit (which looked a lot like the pork and beans they’d had the night before) behind him.
Kurt didn’t know what to do, but he did know that whatever he did meant choosing sides.
“Help me with this here, Kurt?” Pop asked. “I need to crack the pelvis. Hold the tail, and I’ll step on it. That usually does the trick.”
Kurt could see Billy in the distance, bent over at the waist. He could hear the awful sound of his guts spilling out into the snow.
“Come on,” Pop said.
Every ounce of Ku
rt knew he should go to Billy, tell him it was okay. That he’d been queasy the first time too. But he also worried that if he left Pop here to handle this alone, he might not be invited back the next year. And so he grabbed the deer’s tail as his father stomped on the bone, the crack louder than any gunshot.
Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep at night, Kurt ticked off a list of regrets. This moment nearly always topped the list.
“My whole life,” Billy had said, his voice still soft on the other end of the line. Still so far away. “I tried to please Pop, to make him proud. And in return, he’s thrown nothing but steaming shit back at me.”
After he got off the phone with Billy, Kurt had known he wouldn’t be able to sleep, and so he walked. He walked until his legs ached from the effort. He walked through the sleeping downtown, up by the high school, and out onto the road that led to the salvage yard, arriving back at home just as the sun was blooming pink in the sky.
Kurt had lied to Pop. He and Elsbeth didn’t really have plans that night. He was just watching the kids so Elsbeth could go over to Twig’s to get her hair colored.
“When will you be home?” Kurt asked as Elsbeth checked her reflection in the mirror by the door. She looked pretty, more makeup than usual on her eyes. Her hair was clean and hanging down instead of up in that messy ponytail she usually wore.
“What’s that?” she said, turning around. Distracted.
“Will you be late?” he asked.
“Not too,” she said.
After she left, Trevor disappeared into his room. He’d been a lot more talkative than usual at supper, excited about getting to use the darkroom at school the following week, talking about all the things his art teacher had planned for them. Usually he was so quiet, so sullen. As much as having that camera shoved in his face all the time bothered Kurt, this photography kick seemed to be good for him.
Kurt flipped on the TV and scooped Gracy up into his arms. He pressed his face into her hair, which smelled like the sour apple stuff Elsbeth sprayed in it to get the tangles out. It was a smell that nearly brought tears to his eyes. It seemed like it was only a little while ago that Trevor had been small enough to hold, and it made his heart ache that this time was slipping, that Gracy herself would soon be too big for this. Too old. That she would disappear behind slammed doors, want nothing to do with him or Elsbeth. The thought of that was almost too much to bear.
“Gracy-girl,” he said as she nestled into his arm on the couch.
“I love you, Daddy,” she said sleepily.
For now, she was still his little girl. Innocent. Happy. And he hoped that no matter what, he and his children would never, ever turn on each other the way that Billy and Pop had.
Crystal was getting ready for school on Monday when the robocall came. She picked up the house phone, thinking it was strange that they’d be getting a call so early in the morning. “Hello, Two Rivers parents, this is Mrs. Cross. School is canceled today due to a bomb threat called in early this morning. We are investigating this threat and taking all precautions to ensure that your children are safe. School will resume tomorrow.”
In the kitchen, Angie wasn’t dressed yet and was eating her usual disgusting breakfast of frozen chocolate chip waffles soaked in Aunt Jemima.
“You should eat healthier,” Crystal said. “I can make you some oatmeal or something.”
“Ick,” Angie said, dipping a sausage link into the syrup.
Their mother and father were gone to work already. Most mornings they were out the door long before Crystal and Angie were even up. She’d been making Angie breakfast since Angie was in kindergarten.
“Who called?” she asked, mouth full.
“Robocall from Mrs. Cross. No school today.” She didn’t know whether or not she should tell her why. When her mother had explained 9/11 to her a few years ago, Angie been inconsolable for a week. She had slept with Crystal every night, terrified that terrorists were going to start bombing houses.
“Really?” Angie asked, wide-eyed. “How come?”
Crystal shrugged, opting to keep her in the dark this time. No need to lose sleep over some stupid bomb threat. She could hardly believe they’d canceled a whole day of school over it.
“What are you gonna do today?” Crystal asked, and Angie shrugged.
“I could skip school too and we could hang out,” Crystal said, worrying a little that Angie might rather just be alone.
Angie shrugged. “Okay.”
Angie had always liked spending time with Crystal, but something had shifted after Crystal got pregnant. It was like she didn’t know how to act around Crystal anymore. Though she’d never admit it, it broke Crystal’s heart that Angie seemed not to want to spend time with her. She hoped it was just that she was growing up, exercising her independence, and not that she was somehow, like their parents, ashamed of her.
But Angie had said okay, so she’d play hooky. There was only a week until graduation. She had nothing to lose by skipping school. Why not? That way Angie wouldn’t be at the house alone, and besides, she could use a day off. Jesus, she’d call in a bomb threat herself if it meant a day without having to dodge Ty and Lena. To overhear Lena gushing about their relationship. Relationship. That was just a stupid word for hooking up with the same person more than once in a row. She and Ty had had a relationship too, and look where that had gotten them. Of course Lena would never want to come across as the two-faced liar that she was, though, and so she was careful around Crystal. Whenever she rounded the corner only to find them pressed together against her locker (her locker!), Lena was always the one to pull away. As though she had a shred of dignity left. A shred of respect. She and Lena, who knew each other’s deepest secrets. They had whispered their dreams to each other, sliced their fingers and pressed the wounds together. Almost sisters. Now Lena was like somebody she never knew. Crystal felt deflated and forgotten. And it only had a little bit to do with Ty; just a fraction of the hurt was because of him. It was mostly because when Lena was forced to choose between them, when Crystal had needed her most, she’d chosen Ty. Like this relationship would even last the school year. Both of them had ditched her when the going got tough, and because they were her two best friends in the entire world, it made her question her judgment.
She especially thought about this when it came to the Stones, the couple who took her baby. They looked the part, with their intellect and charm. But if she could be wrong about two people she’d known since she was in diapers, couldn’t she be wrong about them too? She tried to put it out of her mind. For one thing, the Stones were grown-ups. They had jobs and a house and lives. Teenagers weren’t the same thing, were they? You could trust adults to tell the truth, right?
“What do you want to do today?” she asked Angie.
“We could go shopping?”
Angie wanted to go to Burlington, but there was no way Crystal was going to risk running into Mrs. Stone on the street. The very thought of it made her whole body tremble. Angie had no idea who had adopted the baby. Their parents had kept her in the dark about everything they could still manage to hide about Crystal’s pregnancy.
“Let’s go to Montpelier,” Crystal said. “We can go to the art store, to that book store, Bear Pond? I’ll treat for lunch.”
They took her dad’s car and spent the morning wandering in and out of the shops. When Crystal was Angie’s age, she and Lena used to save up their babysitting money all summer and then Lena’s dad would drive them to Burlington to go school shopping. They’d try on clothes they couldn’t afford, giggling and wriggling in and out of dresses meant for much older girls. They’d eventually blow all their cash at the mall and fall asleep in the car in a nest of bags. Crystal didn’t even know what size she was anymore. She’d been wearing sweats and big sweaters for the last nine months, but now that summer was coming, she knew she’d be forced to deal with this new body. This stranger’s body. She really needed to start running again. Soon.
They finally found an art st
ore and went inside. Angie’s face lit up as she dashed toward a display of brushes.
“You going to be a while?” she asked Angie, who was examining a twenty-dollar paintbrush, stroking the back of her hand with the soft bristles.
Angie looked up. “You can go somewhere else and meet me back here later.”
Angie was only twelve. Crystal wasn’t sure she should be leaving her alone. But it was an art store. What could happen to her? Besides, she was just going back down the street to the place that had caught her eye earlier.
“You promise you’ll stay here?” she asked. Angie had picked up another brush and was pantomime painting. “Seriously, do not leave the store.”
“I won’t,” Angie said, irritated. “God, I’m not a baby.”
“Okay,” Crystal said. “I’ll be back in an hour. Meet me right here, at two,” she said, looking down at her watch.
Angie rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine. Where are you going?”
Crystal shrugged, though she knew exactly where she was going.
She didn’t know where she was going. What she was doing. On Friday night, Elsbeth had made the mistake of telling Twig about that reporter, Wilder Montgomery. They’d been drinking wine, and it just came out. She showed her his business card, which she’d been carrying around in her pocket since he came into the shop. “He just wants to get coffee. He wants to ask me questions about Two Rivers, about the salon, for this book he’s writing.”
“Why does he want to talk to you?”
Elsbeth felt the tips of her ears getting hot. “He thinks I’m Babette.”
