by CJ Brightley
“You go on, too,” she said.
So I went.
We could hear some of the grown-ups saying that we shouldn’t be letting people like Marcela stay here for days and days, as if they lived here, unless they’re thinking of staying for permanent, like Silent Soriya or Cody.
They didn’t mention Ma.
Mr. Tiptoe said maybe we could take paying guests, like a dry-land boarding house or hotel, but a lot of other voices, including Mr. Tiptoe’s own father, said no no, never nothing like that.
“This place ain’t a resort,” Mrs. Ovey said, and Snowy said, “Asking money just to breathe the air here, just to stand under these roofs we’re fixing? No.”
“Marcy would pay,” said a youngish voice. That was Tomtale. “She said people would like to come here and learn things, like how to thatch, or how to make nets.”
Then there was some teasing, the grown-ups piling on questions about whether Tomtale was sweet on Marcela and why didn’t he ask her to get married and come live in Mermaid’s Hands? Then she could learn those things for free. And then Dad came back to Mr. Tiptoe’s suggestion. “It wouldn’t hurt to have other ways to earn a little money,” he said. “Now that the state’s watching us like sharks, where we put down nets, where we dig…”
Which is funny, because that’s what Ma’s always saying, that stuff about earning money, and Dad always argues with her. I wonder whether it’s the dry-landers watching like sharks that changed his mind, or whether it’s missing Ma that changed it. Or maybe it was never as barnacle fixed as I thought?
There was some murmuring and mumbling, along the lines of well-maybe and gotta-think-on-that-some-more, and then they were back to pressing Tomtale to get Marcela to marry him and come live in Mermaid’s Hands, with only Gran an odd voice out, saying, “You shouldn’t ask a soul to stay here that don’t want to,” and oh how loud I heard Dad’s silence ringing in my ears after that, though I don’t think anyone else did. Meanwhile Tomtale was laughing in an embarrassed way and saying well Marcy’s a grad student and you can’t ask someone like that to tie herself down here. And people were agreeing in a sort of regretful way and saying you can’t be a part-timer here, or have a divided heart.
It was real late when we went back to the Winterhulls’. Tammy was asleep, only wheezing just a little, and Dawn-day was asleep too, and Wade too, because he’d lost interest and come back early.
“Dad,” I whispered, as he settled down across from me.
“Mmm?”
“When you were working at the cannery, when you met Ma—that didn’t make you a part-timer here? Working all day on dry land?”
“Nah. I was one hundred percent gone from Mermaid’s Hands while I was working there. But I always knew I’d come back. More like I was a part-timer on dry land.”
“You didn’t come home at night?”
“Uh-uh.” He yawned. “There was an abandoned shrimp boat in that town. Slept there. G’night, Em.”
Gran must’ve felt me still awake and thinking hard, because she scooted over next to me.
“I never knew there were rules about living here,” I said.
“There ain’t so many rules. Just, if you’re gonna be here, you gotta really be here. Not like those towns on dry land, abandoned all day long and folks just slinking home to sleep.”
I was thinking about Ma and Dad. I was thinking, you can be in a place with your body one hundred percent, but not with your heart. Like Dad on dry land. And like Ma, here. I guess I sighed, because next I felt Gran’s hand on my head, fingers combing through my hair. It made my bones go loose and my eyes close.
“Don’t fret—, Em. Mermaid’s Hands are open hands. You sleep now.”
October 8 (Jiminy to Em)
Dear Em,
Maybe you shouldnt of said that about flattening people in your letter because there are these asswipes guys, two of them, always giving me the eye and in my space and always laughing and yesterday I couldnt take it anymore and I didnt count to ten or even five and now there are “consequences” is what the unit director says, like not being eligible for the work release program for another six months. I say fu fricassee that. Actually no I shouldnt say that. I need to own my actions. I shouldnt even of wrote that about you saying to flatten people because its not your fault what I did. I know that. I am trying but it is so hard and you make a mistake like taking a swing at someone and then your back to square one. But still, you gotta take responsibility for what you do.
Like your friend Kaya. Thats great that your writing to her but I gotta tell you Em, people always say there innocent but most have dirty hands one way or another. People on the outside, too. Even Dad and Ma, probably even Gran. So maybe your friend has things to own up to. And not having any rights, well nobody does in prison! Thats why no one wants to be here! But letters help. I reckon yours help her alot.
You asked if I was sour on Mermaid’s Hands. Its not that I’m sour! You know your always talking about Sabelle Morning? She traveled around, right? I just wanted to see the world a bit, you know, live a little, try some different stuff, see something new. Now its like I can feel everyone back home shaking there heads, like that was a mistake. I feel like, when I get out, I need to show Dad and everyone thats not true. And I aint a fu that I can make something of myself. I’m more than just a jailbird! When I come home, I want to be able to hold my head up high. I dont know if you can understand because you never disappointed no one.
Tell Tammy thats cool about the license plate and the mirror. What state was the license plate from? Thats cool about the windmills too. If one gets built draw me a picture of it.
Love from your brother,
Jiminy
October 9 (Em’s diary)
I picked up a letter from Jiminy at the post office today after school, and I read it right there, with Tammy hanging on my arm, but nobody else around. Small Bill and Clara didn’t want to come in to the post office, so they waited outside, and Wade and Skinnylegs went on ahead.
I must’ve made a face when I got to the part about Jiminy getting in a fight, because Tammy said, “What’s wrong?” and “Let me read.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Look.” I pointed to the bottom of the letter. “He wants to know where the license plate came from. If you write him a letter of your own, maybe he’ll write you a reply of your own. We can still share an envelope and a stamp—that way it’ll cost less.”
She nodded, but I could see her eyes scanning the top part of the letter. Then she looked up.
“They won’t let him out early,” she said.
“Not in the next six months, anyway,” I said.
We were both quiet a spell.
“Let’s not mention it to Dad,” I said at last, and Tammy nodded.
I don’t want to hear what Dad has to say about Jiminy losing his chance for the work release program.
That’s not what’s bugging me now, though. It’s what he wrote at the end, about not wanting to come right home when he gets out. (Which I do too understand, Jiminy, so there! But just because I understand doesn’t mean I have to like it!)
Will he ever come back? How long will it take him to prove himself? What if instead he messes up again? Gran said Mermaid’s Hands are open. Right now it feels like everything slips right through the fingers. Can’t a person ever hold onto anything, or anyone?
October 9 (Em’s diary, second entry)
So I was out on the Winterhulls’ veranda, writing that stuff about Jiminy and gnawing on the end of my pencil, and Granddad Winterhull poked his head out the window and said,
“You still doing homework out there? Too dark for that, ain’t it? Come get some rest.” And I said okay, just one more minute, and next thing I knew Dad was squatting down beside me. I closed my diary, but Dad could see I wasn’t working on homework anymore.
“Things on your mind, Minnow Em?”
“Maybe a little,” I said.
“Is it your brother?”
“Di
d Tammy say something to you?”
Dad laughed.
“Could be that I heard her telling your Gran how she was going to write three letters, one to your ma, one to Mandy, and one to your brother. Or could be that I spied that envelope sticking out of your diary. That a new one from him?”
There was no point lying, and anyway, it ain’t like I really want to hide stuff from Dad. I just don’t want him to get stormy. I let him see the letter.
He didn’t press his lips together to keep angry words in or push the letter away or get up and start pacing. He just sighed. I waited to see what he’d say, which was, “Guess maybe I should write him a letter too. What do you think?”
I hugged him real tight and said some stuff about open hands and not wanting people to slip away, which Dad must of understood, even with me speaking into his T-shirt more than the air, because he said me neither, and then he said, but it’s better to keep hands open than gripped tight shut.
“Things that are set on leaving slip out anyway, like water, and fists never did welcome anything.” He sounded sad. “New things flow in, though, if you keep your hands open.”
I looked at him sidelong. Is that really supposed to make me feel better?
“You mean, like someone new to replace Ma?” I know they were sharp words. But you can’t just replace people! If Jiminy goes away, you can’t just replace him with Cody!
Dad looked toward the horizon. “No, I don’t mean like that,” he said, and the words were part of another sigh. I felt as rotten as three-day-old fish.
“Sorry.”
Dad gave a smidge of a smile and shrugged.
“I meant more like that other prison pen pal of yours, that Jiminy mentioned.”
That was another thing that bothered me about Jiminy’s letter: he didn’t understand about Kaya. But I can tell him more next time I write.
“She flowed into your life, didn’t she.”
“Actually, I fished for her, with a message in a bottle.”
Dad’s smile got bigger.
“Good catch, Em.”
“I think the Seafather helped.”
“He always does.
“And then she saved us,” I said, warming up. It’s more fun remembering good things than thinking on bad ones.
“How’s that now?”
“Didn’t I tell you? She’s the one, the lady overseas who gave the speech about us. She knew about us because of my letters.”
Dad couldn’t of been more stunned if an anchor fell on his head.
“Well I … You should … we should tell her thank you,” he said, his words staggering a bit, like they were dazed, too.
And maybe I swam right into that same anchor, because my head was ringing with what Dad said: we should tell her thank you. We should go on camera, like she did. Talk to the news people, like she did. And if everyone paid attention to us saying thank you, maybe her government would have to let her go, or at least take her out of the prison over the Ruby Lake.
“Do you think we really could? Go on the news and all?” I asked. “The people who followed y’all around when we were at Aunt Brenda’s, could we get them back again?”
“We can ask. Marcela will know. They were eager enough to come the first time round—couldn’t keep’m away with flyswatters.”
I jumped to my feet. “Then we can save her the way she saved us!” I didn’t add maybe or I hope. I wasn’t even thinking those things. I was feeling too sure. It was different from storm-sure, different from tidal-sure: it was surprise-sure, like Sabelle Morning being sure she’s going to board a merchant ship, and them not even knowing she’s coming. Wild, gleeful sure. Dancing-sure, came the thought in my mind, a visiting thought, a red-hot heartbeat thought, from someone with a red-hot heart.
Kaya’s Lady?
12
Saying Thank You
October 10 (Em’s diary)
Why is it already 4 PM? Why did I walk so slow to the post office? Why is the line so long at the checkout counter here at the gas station store? If this line doesn’t get a move on, I’m going to pull Clara and Tammy out and they’ll just have to skip getting Tootsie Pops. If we leave now and I run fast, I can still get back to school before Mr. Dubois leaves, I think.
When I stopped by the post office just now, there was a letter from Kaya, one she wrote on October 2, and now I’m afraid that my thank-you message idea may already be too late. That’s why I need to get to Mr. Dubois’s room. I need to look at a computer. I need to find out what’s going on in W—.
That man I read about, the separatist that confessed: he was a friend of Kaya’s. I knew he had to be. And the government killed him.
Kaya told me not to write her anymore. She was saying goodbye. It’s like the Sabelle Morning story where Sabelle Morning gets captured and she sends a message to her first mate not to try a rescue, because it’ll just put everyone in danger. Not that Benny Brave listened! But if I don’t listen, it’s not me that gets hurt, it’s Kaya’s mother and the other separatists, and Kaya too, it sounds like.
I need to find a computer.
Okay, Clara and Tammy have their Tootsie Pops. More later.
October 10 (Em’s diary, second entry)
Oh please, Seafather, you know the movements of all deep-swimming things and the flavor of each wave. Please send me your strength and power. Mr. Ovey, granddad, everybody who lives beneath the waves, please: you too.
Clara and Tammy went on home, and I told Small Bill to go ahead too. Then I headed back to school.
I checked the parking lot first, to see if Mr. Dubois’s car was still there. He runs the homework club, so a lot of times he stays late. And it was there! But when I went round to the front door, Mr. Barnes and Ms. Tennant were just coming out. Ms. Tennant was the last person I wanted to meet up with, so I doubled back the way I came and hurried around the rear of the building, looking in at each window until I found Mr. Dubois’s room.
All the homework club kids had already left. He was alone in there, putting a stack of papers into his backpack. The window was cranked open, so I called in to him, but he didn’t look up, and as he zipped the backpack closed, I noticed white wires coming down from his ears and vanishing into his shirt pocket. I rapped on the glass and waved, but still he didn’t hear. He was swinging the backpack onto one shoulder and striding for the door. I took a deep breath, getting ready to really pound the window and yell, when a hand came down on my shoulder. I jumped, and something between a squeal and a scream came out of me.
“You know you’re not supposed to loiter here after hours, don’t you? No one should be on school property unless it’s for school business. You have mischief on the mind?” It was Mr. Barnes, and hanging back a good ten feet was evil old Ms. Tennant, arms crossed and eyes all knives.
“I have to see Mr. Dubois,” I blurted, forgetting all about “No sir.” Mr. Barnes frowned.
“Then why didn’t you come up to the front door? Why’d we see you dart away like some sort of delinquent?”
“And now we find you back here, getting ready to break windows.” Of course Ms. Tennant had to stick her oar in. She turned to Mr. Barnes, and started in like I couldn’t even hear, about how Mr. Dubois had supported and trusted me, and this is how I repay him.
“Whoa, what’s happening out here? Who-all’s repaying me for what now? Hello Em. Hello Charlie, Grace.” All our commotion must of done what my calling and rapping couldn’t, because Mr. Dubois was at the window now.
“Is that necessary?” he asked, nodding at Mr. Barnes’s hand, which was still clamped like a vise on my shoulder. He let go. I leaned in on the window frame.
“Can I use your computer? I have to check about my friend Kaya and what’s going on in her country! I’m afraid she’s—”
“Em, you need to let Mr. Dubois go home now. Maybe he can help you tomorrow,” Mr. Barnes said, while Ms. Tennant grumbled about attention-seeking behavior and teachers who enable it.
“Please?” I couldn�
�t stop thinking of Kaya, trapped above the Ruby Lake, with no visitors and now no mail, either, writing “If I ever leave here.”
“Sure, sure, come round to the front,” he said, and then, over my head, “It’s not a problem; don’t worry,” to Mr. Barnes and Ms. Tennant. I snaked between them, leaving them to shake their heads and sigh together, and jogged back to the front. Mr. Dubois met me there.
“Now who’s this Kaya? You said she’s in another country? Is that why you were looking up … what was the name? It was one of those tiny places you barely even know is a country, I seem to recall.”
“Yeah, W—. It’s an island, here, see?”
I showed him the map that comes up over on the right if you search on W—, but then I put my new search in, adding “insurgents” and “Kayamanira” and “Ruby Lake” to W—. I could feel myself breaking out in a sweat, even though it’s a pretty mild day and a breeze was coming in from the window we’d been talking through just minutes earlier.
“Huh, so that’s where W— is. Tucked right in there with all those Indonesian islands. So you have a pen pal from W—, huh?
“She’s more than a pen pal, she’s a real friend. She’s the person who saved Mermaid’s Hands and she’s a, a, an activist? A kind of protester? And she’s in prison in her country and …” and then, maybe because of all the running, or maybe because of Mr. Barnes and Ms. Tennant, or maybe just because of worrying about Kaya, but I retched.
“Whoa, whoa, Em, you okay? Gently does it—here, sit tight a sec.”
He hurried out of the room and came back with a paper cup of cold water from Mr. Barnes’s office. He pulled his wheelie teacher-chair around next to me.
“I’m a little confused,” he said, but his voice sounded more serious-worried than confused, and if I hadn’t been so focused on finding out what’s happening with Kaya, I might of heard my mind’s warning bell, the one that goes off when grown-ups think you’re doing something stupid or dangerous. “Wasn’t it those people from Minorities Mobilize that changed the state’s mind about Mermaid’s Hands? And what’s this about protestors and prison? I think you want to stay clear of …” I followed his gaze to the article at the top of the screen. “Seventeen dead at US-owned logging camp,” the headline said. By poison gas—an attack by the separatists.