by Penn Gates
“Ha! I'll get to the bottom of this,” she says to herself and grins in the darkness. “As a detective, I've always wanted to say that line.”
“What did you say?” Brittany calls.
“Nothing important,” Nix says.
“Hey!” Brittany’s, voice is suddenly a lot closer. Nix looks up to see her standing at the top of the stairs.
“I got it open,” the girl says.
“I'm coming back up.”
Brittany flaps her hand and squeals as Nix emerges from the stair well. “Yuck! You're covered in cobwebs!”
Nix wastes no time bending over and combing her fingers through her short hair.
“Guess what?” Brittany says as she watches. “There are wooden crates full of books in there.”
“Explains the empty shelves in the library,” Nix says absently, wondering when—if ever—she’s going to stop feeling like something is creeping around on her scalp.
“What library?”
“The office,” Nix says in exasperation.
“Oh, you mean the principal's office,” Brittany says and laughs.
Nix grits her teeth. “Funny,” she says. “Did Cash tell you to call it that?”
Brittany looks confused. “We all call it that—everyone but Cash,” she says. “Did you think he came up with the name? As if! He's your biggest supporter.”
Nix doesn't answer.
“Did he snitch on us?” Brittany does her pouting thing. “I thought he knew it was kind of a joke. None of us mean anything by it. Why did he have to tell you?”
“He didn't tell me,” Nix snaps. “We were having a little—disagreement, and he mentioned the principal's office thing to piss me off.”
“I thought you liked Cash—don’t you?” Brittany asks.
“I like anyone who contributes something to the group and doesn't cause problems.”
“That describes George too, and you don't like him.”
“Who says I don't?” Nix snaps. “I respect and admire George, but—he and I are like oil and vinegar. We don't mix.”
Brittany smiles. “I think you mean oil and water don't mix. But yeah, oil and vinegar don't really mix either. They make a great salad dressing, though, if you shake them up.”
“Jesus,” Nix mutters, “Enough already.”
“Why don't you go take a shower?” Brittany says suddenly.
“Sadly, today is not my turn.”
“It's mine!” Brit says. “But we can switch. I wouldn't want to walk around like that, feeling itchy-twitchy.”
Nix is actually momentarily touched at this gesture, until Brittany says, “I'm going to stay up here and go through those books.”
“Here's a thought,” Nix says. “Why don't you carry the boxes downstairs, one at a time, and put them back on the library shelves. Once you've dusted the shelves, of course.”
Brittany opens her mouth, then closes it. Her desire to find the book in order to get her grubby little hands on the clothes is greater than her distaste for extra work. “OK, it’s a deal.”
◆◆◆
Nix stands within the canvas enclosure and yanks on the cord hanging above her head. Warm water cascades over her until she quits pulling. She grabs the shampoo and lathers up her wet hair, then soaps up her whole body. This is absolute luxury. What she's dreamed about since the electricity went off. She knows that it's only temporary. This setup won't work in the winter, obviously, but for now the solar heated water in the galvanized tank overhead is a godsend.
Unexpectedly, she hears Cash calling, “Hey Nix, that is you in there, isn't it?”
“Yeah, it was me enjoying a shower. Now it's me not enjoying it." She yanks on the cord again to rinse off the soap. She feels exposed, although she knows the only part of her that can be seen is from the calves of her legs down to her feet.
“Turned out pretty good, didn't it?” Cash asks.
“It did, yes. Thank you. You're brilliant. Now can I have some privacy?”
“Afraid not. Much as I enjoy the opportunity to force a compliment out of you, that's not why I came lookin’ for you. We got company.”
“What! Who the hell would that be?" Nix scrubs herself harder with the threadbare towel.
“It's some of the boys from over at Frank's.”
“What do they want?” Nix relaxes slightly. “More food?”
“Don't know yet. Thought you should be there to hear whatever they have to say.”
“All right, all right, I'm getting dressed as fast as I can." Nix pulls a clean T-shirt over her head and yanks on her only remaining pair of jeans.
She steps out of the shower enclosure and looks around for her work shoes.
Cash grins at her. “I love that spiky punk look ya got goin' with the hair,” he comments.
“Zip it,” Nix says, bending to tie her laces. “Where's the boy scout troop?”
“In the back yard getting a drink of water. Something's definitely wrong over there. They act like cold water is a treat.”
The first thing Nix notices is how thin the boys are. And pasty white, in the middle of summer. Yup, they're here for a handout all right.
“Nix, this is Terry Balachek,” Cash says and points to a kid with dirty blonde hair and dark circles under his eyes.
Terry rises to his feet and holds out his hand, “Ma'am, pleased to meet you.”
Nix wonders if Cash has prepped these guys on how to behave, but a quick glance tells her he's as surprised as she is. She takes Terry's hand briefly. “Good to meet you.” She gestures. “Go on, sit down. Relax.”
Still standing, Terry says, “We brought you some stuff. Thought maybe we could trade for some milk and eggs.”
Another surprise. “What have you got?” Nix asks, making sure to sound off hand.
“We found that Walmart awhile back and scored some canned goods. We brought a few cans of stuff—pork and beans, some kind of soup, and a jar of peanut butter.”
Cash nods at Terry. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Nix looks at Terry's four companions. She knows desperation when she sees it. She takes a seat at the picnic table, slightly separate from the guys sitting cross-legged on the grass. Separate and slightly higher, she thinks. Nothing wrong with a little non-verbal intimidation.
Cash, on the other hand, throws himself down next to the nervous young men, as if he's their advocate. Is he? Or are we playing that fun game, good cop, bad cop? For a split second she thinks he's winked at her, but it happens so fast she can't be sure.
“So,” Cash says, “Let's cut to the chase. What do you guys really want? We're ready to listen, so start talkin’.”
“It's a mess over there,” one of the kids mumbles. “It's like—”
“Before you get to give your opinion, the boss needs to know your name.”
Nix bites her lip to keep from smiling. Isn't that laying it on a bit thick?
The kid actually stands up and faces her. “My name is Mitch, ma'am. Mitch Phillips.”
“Well Mitch, 'it's a mess' doesn't really tell me much, except that you're unhappy about something. Be specific, please.”
Mitch stands a little straighter and looks her in the eye. “Like Terry said, we did find that Walmart off the Interstate. Some of us were getting sick. I mean, we were almost starving. We just grabbed anything out of there that wouldn't spoil, ya know? Lots of canned stuff and noodles. But the coach—he starts ordering us to grab all the beer and wine. Shit! We left good food behind to make room for that crap." He stands there glaring, but Nix knows he's glaring at the memory of Frank loading up on what he wants while the kids he's responsible for are developing malnutrition.
Mitch shakes himself and refocuses. “He's pretty much been living on beer and wine since then.”
An African American kid stands up. He has striking green eyes. “Marcus LeBlaunt,” he says without prompting. “We aren't stupid, but almost all of us were raised in the suburbs. We figure we should be getting ready for the winter
now, not when it starts to snow, but we don't know crap about farming. Frank's house has no fireplace or wood burning stove—just a propane furnace, and the tank outside is empty. We need some help—or maybe a little advice. Because we're not going to make it unless we get our shit together.”
“Not all of your team is here,” Cash comments. “The others—how do they feel?”
“We didn't think it was a good idea for too many of us to leave at once and attract Frank’s attention,” Terry says. “And four or five assholes are OK with the way things are. They're the kind of guys who think keg parties are cool, any time, any place." He colors. “And they think you'll work them like slaves over here.”
“They're right about that,” Nix says. She laughs at their startled expressions. “Come on, guys. That was a joke—sort of." She stands up. “Fact is, we all work our butts off around here, six days a week, from dawn to dark. That's why we eat well. And we have the things we need because if we can't make 'em, we go find 'em."
Cash jumps up. “I've heard a lot of complainin'. A lot of hints." He looks over at Nix. “Nobody has had the stones to come out and ask for what they really want.”
A dark-haired boy stands. “David Lowenstein. And yeah, we want to join up with St Clair farm." He smiles. “I’m not afraid of hard work, and I don't think that anyone who wants to leave Neverland is either.”
“Neverland?” Nix asks.
David points to himself. “That's what I call it, anyway. You know—it’s where Peter Pan took all the lost boys.”
Nix snorts. “I don't know if Frank is Peter, but he sure is a dick.”
The boys look startled—then burst into laughter, and the tension is broken.
“You still haven't been specific about how many there would be,” Nix points out. “Just the five of you? Or what?”
“There's us, for sure,” Terry answers. “And three others who didn't come today.”
“No offense, you guys, but we've got to think this through before we give you an answer,” Nix says. “We're already feeding a lot of mouths.”
Terry nods and then adds, “To be honest, there are two other guys who want to come but are—”
“Scared?” Nix asks. “What are they scared of? Frank?”
“Maybe,” Terry says. “Drunks are unpredictable.”
“Has he hurt anybody?” Cash asks, and his voice is hard. Nix guesses he might know about drunken violence firsthand.
“Not yet—but he came close a few times,” Marcus answers.
The kids look at each other. Clearly they'd rather not leave, but Terry speaks for the group. “It's Frank's truck. We'll take it back and wait to hear from you.”
Is every fucking kid in the world going to end up on my doorstep? Nix wonders, and yet she has to stop herself from running after them as she and Cash watch the truck disappear around the bend.
“At least they have the balls to go back and face Frank,” Nix says.
“Let's take a walk,” Cash says suddenly.
She wants time to mull things over before they get into a discussion. On the other hand, how much time do they really have to make this decision?
“Where?”
“I feel like fishin’,” Cash answers and heads for the path to the east pond.
He doesn't speak again until he picks up one of the fishing poles always left in the old metal rowboat. He scuffs the damp earth at the edge of the water and uncovers a worm, which he threads onto the end of his hook.
Nix reaches for another rod. “Put the worm on for me, would you?”
Cash laughs. “You can shoot people, but you can't stick a hook through a worm?”
“Worms are innocent victims,” Nix says stiffly. “All humans got it coming, one way or another.”
Cash finishes baiting her hook and hands the rod back to her. “You really believe that?”
Nix moves several feet away and casts her line, none too expertly. “Yeah, I guess I do. Even when people try to be good, they always do what's easiest for themselves and make up an excuse that let's 'em live with it. Why not just be honest? It's all self-interest, all the time.”
“And I thought I had issues,” Cash comments.
“I don't have issues,” Nix says coldly. “I'm just stating a fact.”
“So who let you down so bad you got a philosophy like that?”
“Nobody,” Nix says around the lump in her throat. “Or everybody." She lets her pole droop into the water and she stands swishing it back and forth absently.
“I never saw that style of fishin' before,” Cash comments.
“You said your father was a drunk,” Nix says suddenly. “So that can't have been fun.”
“Nope—but it sure as hell was excitin’. Never knew what was gonna happen from one minute to the next.”
“Is that why you left home? You must have been younger than these guys.”
“I was fourteen,” Cash says. “Knocked around for a couple of years with a carnival, then decided I needed to clean up my act. Got a job in a gas station, earned my GED, and joined the Army.
“Did you ever go back—to see your father, I mean?”
“Yeah, last October. He was dead when I got there." He casts the line into the water before he asks, “So you grew up here with your grandfather, right?”
Nix nods. “Some of the time.”
“What about the rest of the time?”
“Don't want to talk about it.”
“Sure you do or you wouldn't have started this conversation.”
Nix drops the pole and watches it continue to move in the ripples from the light breeze.
“That's just like old problems,” Cash comments, pointing to the rod slowly drifting beneath the water. “Try to let 'em sink, memory just keeps 'em movin’ around under the surface.”
He stoops down and plucks up the rod before it's gone. “You've never mentioned your parents. Did they die?”
“That's a pretty safe bet these days.”
“But when you were a kid? Where were they?”
“I never had a father—just a sperm donor, you know? My mother was kind of a groupie when she was a kid." She doesn't look at Cash. “Later, she was just a druggie—but she still hung on to all that hippy-dippy shit. Drifted from one commune to another. That's why I was born in Arizona. She wanted to experiment with peyote.”
“That sounds rough,” Cash says quietly.
“I guess it was for her, too,” Nix laughs bitterly. “That's why every once in awhile she'd come back here. Always said she wanted to get straight. But as soon as she felt better, she'd be gone. The first time she left me, I cried. She came back for me after awhile, and then I wished she hadn't. I don't know how many times she did that.”
“Your grandfather—what did he think about all this?”
“He never said a word. Not to her. Not to me.” She rubs angrily at her eyes. “Sometimes—every once in awhile—I wonder why he let her take me like that, over and over again.” She stands gazing out over the pond as the horizon turns faintly pink.
“If we're gonna let 'em come, we'd better do it quick before Frank has a chance to brood about it and maybe do something stupid,” Nix says slowly. She looks directly at Cash. “I'm beginning to feel like the fucking Pied Piper of Hamlin. How many kids can this place support?”
She holds out her hand to Cash. “That was a low blow the other day—what I said about you wanting your own militia. I didn't mean it.”
Cash takes her hand. “Well hell, I was just startin' to fancy myself a cornpone Hitler." Then he grins and lets go before stooping to retrieve the string of fish.
“Hey,” Cash says over his shoulder, “You think maybe Margaret would cook these up?”
“I'm not eating them unless she does,” Nix answers. “I know I was the one who put Brittany on the cooking crew, but I don't even want to think about what she could do to fish.”
“So that's why she's makin' like Rachel Ray. Man, this mornin’ the biscuits tasted like she b
aked up a batch of library paste.”
Chapter 16
The next morning the eggs are a little rubbery, but the biscuits are light as feathers. Not hard to tell who's cooking what these days, Nix thinks.
“What did those guys want yesterday?” Jason asks.
“Tell you later,” Nix answers, and gives him a look that dares him to pursue the subject. “But since Jason brought it up,” she says, glancing at George, “I want to see you, Mr. Shirk, and Margaret and Michael, in the office right after breakfast.”
“Not Cash?” Jason smirks.
“Cash already knows about it,” Nix says briefly.
As chairs scrape back from the table, Brittany appears at Nix's elbow. “I've got to talk to you for a second,” she says, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Not now, Brittany. This meeting is pretty important. I'll catch up with you later. In the meantime, keep helping out in the kitchen, OK?”
The girl looks disappointed, rather than sullen, as she turns away, but Nix is already headed toward the office. She's surprised by the changes made in the room since yesterday. Did Brittany really accomplish all this by herself, or did she sweet talk Jason into doing the heavy lifting? The shelves are already half full of books, and it's possible to see again why it was called the library.
Nix notices something sitting in the middle of her desk, wrapped in rough cloth, and her heart begins to beat faster. She strides across the room and folds back the dusty fabric. There it lies, bound in red morocco leather, and it is, in fact, the size of an Atlas. She slowly opens the cover to look at the first page. The ink is a faded bronze, the script spidery and looping. She can barely make out what it says, but she can see the date: October 30, 1671.
“What is this all about?" George's voice cuts through her sense of wonder and brings her back to the problem at hand.