Thanks to Charlie, though, Mirielle had failed to hold up her end of the bargain. She stamped down the walkway straight to the canteen. Barn dance music sounded from the radio in the rec hall, reminding Mirielle of the observation tower. In the week since, she’d avoided Frank as best she could in a tiny colony like theirs. She suspected he was avoiding her as well. He glanced up from the cash register when she entered the canteen, but didn’t smile. Several residents sat at the counter, sipping soda and flipping through newspapers or chatting with those beside them. She hoped they’d keep him busy enough not to notice the music and be reminded of that night too.
Shelves lined the far wall of the canteen where Frank stocked canned goods, cigarettes, dime-store beauty products, and candy. Anything else residents wanted to buy had to come from mail-order catalogs and took weeks to arrive. Exactly what one might find on the shelves varied. Some weeks it was creamed corn and Campbell’s soup, other weeks pork ’n beans. Camels and then Murads. Oh Henry! bars, then the next week peanut brittle. But today there was little of anything on the shelves.
Mirielle looked behind the remaining cans of spinach and tubes of Colgate dental cream, finding only four Hershey’s bars and a box of Cracker Jacks. Maybe this week’s stock hadn’t been shelved yet.
“Where’s all the sweets?” she asked Frank at the counter. She’d meant to sound nonchalant, but a strange nervousness buzzed in her stomach, and her words came out like an accusation.
“This week’s shipment ain’t come in yet.”
“When will it arrive?”
Frank shrugged. “Supposed to come yesterday.”
“But surely before the Fourth.”
“Hard to say. Mightn’t come at all. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You’re kidding!” Mirielle’s raised voice drew several sidelong glances. “What kind of operation are you working with?”
“The kind that’s willing to do business with lepers.”
She handed over the Hershey’s bars and Cracker Jacks for Frank to ring up. It was only enough for a few squares of chocolate and a couple of kernels of popcorn for each kid, but she’d buy more tomorrow when the shipment came in. If it came in.
“How are the clues for the treasure hunt coming along?” he asked her, using the knuckle of his index finger to depress the cash register’s keys.
“Fine.” The clues were the least of her worry now. She ought to tell him that her husband hadn’t sent any candy for the kids. Or fireworks. But she couldn’t bring herself to form the words. Not yet.
* * *
Three days later on the afternoon of July second, Mirielle and Irene finished their shift in the pharmacy and headed toward the canteen to meet with Frank and a few other residents about the party.
“You’ve been awfully quiet today, baby,” Irene said as they walked. “You feeling okay?”
Mirielle nodded. All afternoon they’d been diluting disinfectant, and the sharp smell of it clung to her uniform. She wanted to go back to her room and change, but if she did, she’d likely lose her nerve and skip the meeting entirely. The stock of goods for the canteen still hadn’t arrived, and all Mirielle had to show for her grand plans for the party were a dozen silly treasure hunt clues, four candy bars, and a single box of popcorn.
A mix of disappointment and embarrassment had stirred inside her all day, building to a kind of dread. She’d managed only a few bites of her lunch, and Sister Beatrice had to remind her three times of the proper ratio of water and Lysol. Now her feet dragged and shoulders slumped.
When they got to the canteen, Irene ordered them each a Coke, and they waited with the others at a back table until Frank finished helping the customers at the counter. The Hot Rocks were excited to play, Frank reported when he joined them. Mr. Li and a few other residents had built a simple bandstand out of scrap lumber from the woodshop. Norma and her housemates had dyed several yards of old fabric to make bunting for the stage. Hector would cut the lawn to a fine stubble the morning of the party so they’d have a place to dance. Irene had met with Chef, and together they’d planned a feast of barbecue, beans, and cake.
Everyone’s eyes turned to Mirielle. Her mouth felt dry, and she took a long sip of Coke. The bubbles danced in her empty stomach.
“I’ve got the treasure hunt all planned out,” she managed to say, and told them about the course she mapped out—starting under the oaks and ending at Union Chapel with stops along the way at the monkey cage, tea garden, observation tower, grain silo, tennis courts, powerhouse, and the stretch of walkway between house thirteen and the cookshop referred to as Pork Chop Walk. At each location, she’d hide a clue leading the children to the next spot.
“And at the end?” Norma asked.
Mirielle took another gulp of soda. “I . . . my husband couldn’t . . .” She looked down, feeling all the more foolish for the tears threatening in her eyes. “I haven’t got but four Hershey’s bars and a box of Cracker Jacks.”
“It something,” Mr. Li said.
“Not nearly enough. Not what I promised. And . . .” She took a deep breath and looked up. “No fireworks.”
No one looked surprised. Instead, they regarded her with sympathy, as if this was something they’d known would happen but hadn’t had the heart to tell her at the start. Everyone except Frank. His expression was dark and inscrutable.
“I’ll do some askin’ around,” Irene said, giving Mirielle’s hand a squeeze. “I’m sure I can rustle up some more candy and trinkets.”
“Me too,” Norma said.
Mr. Li fingered the brim of his cap. His round face was like a prune, the skin furrowed and thickened with plaques. Before coming to Carville, he’d run a prosperous furniture shop in San Francisco. When his disease had been discovered, he’d told Mirielle, he’d been locked in a boxcar without food or water and shuttled back and forth between county lines for days before a hospital finally agreed to take him. “Maybe I can do something in the way of fireworks.”
“Don’t get yourself in trouble like last year,” Frank said.
“No, no,” Mr. Li said with the hint of a smile.
How someone could manage anything close to fireworks locked inside the colony with only two days’ notice, Mirielle didn’t know. But if anyone could, it was Mr. Li.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a bit steadier. “I was afraid you’d take me for a heel, promising such things and coming up, well, empty-handed.”
“You ain’t the first to be disappointed by the outside world, baby,” Irene said.
“My husband’s got an awful lot to bother with right now. That’s all. He just got a new—” Mirielle stopped before blurting out picture contract. Only Hector knew who her husband was and what he did. Best keep it that way. “A new job. Anyways, thanks for understanding.”
Frank leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What about the frog race?”
“Won’t I just stand at the finish line and name whichever frog makes it there first the winner?”
“It’s serious business, racing.”
“I’m certain I can judge a silly old frog race,” she said.
“And what about the bullfrogs?” Frank asked. “How many did ya get? Big, big ones, I hope. And they gotta be the same size.”
Mirielle tugged on the collar of her blouse. She didn’t remember him saying anything about her finding the frogs. “I . . . er . . .”
“Ya did get the frogs, didn’t ya?” Frank said.
“Um . . . no.”
Frank shook his head. “Mais, that’s a shame. The kids will be heartbroken.”
“But I . . .”
He really should have told Mirielle this was her responsibility. It wasn’t as if she’d organized a frog race before. She looked down at the last few sips of soda in her glass. Tiny bubbles troubled the cola’s surface. She pushed the glass away, no longer the slightest bit thirsty. “How was I supposed to know to get frogs?”
“Ya thought they’d just magically appear
?” Frank said.
She looked to Irene for support but got only a shoulder shrug.
“It’s all right,” Frank said after an uncomfortably long silence. “We’ll go tomorrow night.”
“Where?”
“Where else? The swamp.”
CHAPTER 28
“You’re going dressed like that?” Irene said to her the next night.
Mirielle had donned a loose-fitting tennis dress that belted at the hips. “Isn’t this sporty enough?”
“City folk.” Irene shook her head and handed over a pair of green galoshes. “At least wear these.”
Mirielle slipped them over her pumps and hurried out. Frank leaned against the trunk of a pecan tree just beyond the ring of houses at the far edge of the colony waiting for her. An empty flour sack was slung over his shoulder. He eyed her dress with disapproval, then switched on the cap lamp strapped around his head. “Come on.”
They traipsed across the cow pasture toward the wood. Her feet slid back and forth inside Irene’s too-big galoshes. Mud and cow manure clung to the soles. More than once, she stepped clear out of them, wheeling her arms for balance until she managed to fit her foot back inside and pry the galoshes from the clinging ground.
Frank kept a pace ahead of her. The night was black as onyx, and she had to all but run to stay near the pool of light cast by his cap lamp. They skirted the tangle of trees that marked the edge of the forest. It smelled of boggy soil and rotting wood. Moths scudded in and out of Frank’s light. A twig snapped high in one of the nearby trees.
“Just a possum,” Frank said, likely in response to her quick draw of breath.
Another snap sounded from the wood. “How do you know? What if it’s a panther stalking us. Or an alligator.”
He stopped so abruptly, Mirielle almost ran into him. The beam of his light blinded her. He switched it off, and blackness enveloped them. Mirielle preferred the blinding light to this.
“For one, gators don’t climb trees,” he said. “And there ain’t no panthers in these parts. Listen.”
When he didn’t continue talking, Mirielle realized he meant for her to listen to their surroundings. At first, all she heard was silence. How she missed the noise of the city—car engines and bicycle horns and police whistles. She missed the light too. Even on a moonless night, Los Angeles glowed, a faint but permeating yellow from the collective twinkle of street lamps and car lights.
Her ear caught the sound of crickets chirping. An owl hooting. The splash of water in the distance. At the rustling of leaves, she looked up. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim, and she saw the pale underbelly of a possum as it scurried along a tree limb.
“See?”
She nodded.
They stood only inches apart. The scent of him—soap and sandalwood and zinc liniment—blended with the woody smell of the forest. “You grew up in a place like this?”
“Yep. Lovely, ain’t it?”
That was going a bit far. But the buzzing and the hooting and leaf chatter did have a soothing, almost songlike quality to it. “We needn’t worry, then?”
He turned from her and snapped his cap lamp back on. “I didn’t say that, but certainly not on account of a possum.”
She followed as close behind him as the clunky galoshes would permit. Not far on, the tree line curved away, revealing an expanse of flat darkness. When Frank’s light shined upon it, patches of water glimmered back at them amid lily pads and duckweed.
He led her to a flat-bottomed skiff tied to a nearby tree. They pushed it into the water, and he climbed aboard. Mirielle hesitated. Lake water lapped against her galoshes. She cast a wistful glance over her shoulder. The colony was but a few pinpricks of light in the distance. When she turned back to the skiff, Frank extended his hand to her. “Come on.”
Something splashed into the water at the far side of the lake.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Ya have to.” When she didn’t take his hand, he said, “Think of Jean and them other kids.”
Mirielle sucked in a deep breath and grabbed Frank’s hand. His skin was dry and bumpy; his fingers twisted nubs beneath her own. She let go the minute she was aboard, wiping her hand on her skirt before registering the insult.
“Sorry . . . I . . . It’s not . . .” She stopped herself before saying something that would make the insult worse and sat down.
“Ya ain’t the first.” He sat opposite her and handed her the cap lamp. “Scan the surface of the water. When ya see a pair of eyes shine back at ya, reach out and grab.”
“What? Me?”
“I gotta row.”
“But how do I know it will be a bullfrog?”
He gave a faint smile and shrugged. “A gator will be too heavy to pull outta the water.”
She glared at him but took the lamp, tightening the straps so it fit snuggly across her forehead. “This is the last time I volunteer for one of your stupid What Cheer events.”
“Shh. You’ll scare away the frogs.”
With the oars’ handles sandwiched between his hands, he paddled them with slow, smooth strokes around the perimeter of the lake. Amid the soft ripple of water, she heard a strange vibrating noise—like that of an airplane propeller, but much quieter—rise and fall among the duckweed.
“What’s that?” she whispered.
“The bullfrogs’ breeding call. A bit far on in the season for that. Late bloomers, I guess.” He drew the oar through the water. “Keep your eyes on the water. There’s gotta be some close.”
“I am.”
“Anything?”
“No.” But then she saw them, two beady eyes just above the water’s surface. Mirielle hesitated, grimacing, then reached out quickly and grabbed. A huge, slippery bullfrog writhed in her hand. It puffed its jowls and croaked. Its long legs kicked and splashed as she pulled it out of the water. “Take it!”
Frank tucked the oar beneath his arm and opened the flour sack. “Here. Drop him in.”
Mirielle happily let go, and the frog tumbled to the bottom of the sack. It croaked again and stared up at her. Its dark skin was slick and spotted. The frog jumped, and Mirielle lurched back, nearly falling off her seat, but Frank closed the bag before it could escape.
“Not bad,” Frank said when he’d stopped chuckling. “He’s at least eight inches.”
“How many more do we need?” Mirielle asked, wiping the mud and slime from her hand.
“A dozen or so should be enough.”
A dozen? There weren’t even that many children. Frank’s cheery voice made her want to throttle him. Easy to laugh and smile when you weren’t the one grabbing at a pair of glassy eyes in murky water.
The next frog twisted free from her grasp before she could drop it in the sack. The one after, Frank deemed too small and made her throw back. By her fourth catch, she’d gotten the hang of spotting their glinting eyes and holding on to their slippery bodies.
After her tenth catch, she quickly spied another frog and reached out. Before her hand touched the water, Frank pulled her back. Two nostrils joined the eyes above the water. Below the surface, Mirielle made out the long slender form of an alligator.
“Just a t-li’l guy,” Frank assured her. “Couldn’t have done worse than a nip.” But he paddled them clear across the lake then let the boat drift through the marsh reeds, catching the last two himself.
With their bag full, he rowed them to shore. However t-li’l the alligator had been, Mirielle was glad to be finished. Her back ached from hunching over the water, and dozens of mosquito bites welted her skin. Frank, who’d come better dressed for the hunt in pants and a long-sleeve shirt, seemed in no hurry.
As soon as she felt the bow of the skiff catch on the muddy shore, she stood, realizing her mistake only as the boat began to wobble. She flung out her arms in a vain attempt to balance herself, succeeding only at further rocking the boat. Frank reached out to her, too late, and she toppled into the muddy lake.
The water, thou
gh neither cold nor deep, sent a shock through Mirielle. Her hands and rear hit bottom quickly, settling into the mud. A sharp pain radiated down her recently broken arm, and her fingers tingled. When she sat up, her head was above water. The cap lamp dangled from her ear, no longer shining. Slimy water weeds tangled in her dripping hair. She coughed and cradled her arm. Not broken, she decided, but damn sore.
Frank leaped from the boat and helped her to her feet. Her tennis dress clung wet and muddy to her body. The night air, cooler than when they’d set out, made her shiver. Then something flapped against her thigh. Mirielle yelped and hiked up her skirt to find a fish caught in her girdle strap. Frank laughed as she batted it free.
“It’s not funny.” She stomped to the shore and emptied her water-filled galoshes.
“It’s not. Of course. It’s just . . .” His words trailed into more laughter as he peeled a lily pad off her back. “At least the frogs didn’t go over.”
Mirielle humphed and started toward the colony, leaving the boat and bullfrogs to him.
CHAPTER 29
The children delighted in the July Fourth treasure hunt. Jean led the charge, and they made it around the colony, ending at Reverend Philips’s tin lizzie parked in front of Union Chapel in forty minutes flat. They dumped the box of treasure on the gravel drive. The marbles and ribbons and handcrafted toys Norma and Irene had rustled up tumbled out alongside Mirielle’s candy. The children cheered and divided up the spoils. No one, save Mirielle, seemed to notice the missing lollipops.
The frog race was less of a success. They staged it at the baseball diamond. Each child selected a frog and lined up behind third base. But instead of hopping orderly down the baseline to home plate, the frogs leapt this way and that. Two ended up on the pitcher’s mound. One in the dugout. One the outfield. One of the twins’ frogs wouldn’t hop at all. At last, a boy named Simon managed to chase his bullfrog to home plate, and Mirielle declared him the winner. Residents on the sideline who’d laid bets with one another grumbled, but the children laughed and scooped up their frogs for a rematch under the oaks where Chef was barbecuing.
The Second Life of Mirielle West Page 16