Not a Drop to Drink

by Mindy McGinnis

  Lucy woke to find her new protector sitting in the other cot with her arms crossed defensively, her gaze unfocused. The little girl stretched luxuriously, reveling in the smell of her clean hair and the feel of the warm blankets on her back. The trapped warmth from her body lulled her back down into sleep, but not before her hands brushed against something unfamiliar. A stuffed red dog, worn from years of love, had been tucked under the blankets with her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just something I got for you out of the attic,” Lynn said. “It’s no big deal.”

  Lucy ran her fingers over the soft, red fur, the hard nubs of plastic that formed his little black nose and eyes. “Was he yours? What’s his name?”

  “I just called him Dog.”

  “Dog,” Lucy repeated, pinning back his floppy ears and releasing them to fall down into her face. “You’re not good at naming things.”

  “I had a real dog once,” Lynn said. “He answered to ‘Dog’ just fine, and didn’t seem to mind it.”

  Lucy tossed the stuffed animal into the air. “What happened to him?”

  “That,” Lynn said, snapping her hand out neatly to snatch the dog before he landed, “is not a good story.”

  Lucy stretched her thin arms out, fingers wiggling for her gift. “Can I call him Red Dog?”

  “Call him what you want,” Lynn said, letting him fall to the little girl’s chest, where she grabbed him in a bear hug. “He’s yours now.”

  Lucy snuggled back under the covers, taking the newly rechristened Red Dog with her. Two fingers pinched onto one ear and rubbed in an ever-slowing circle as she drifted back down into sleep.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Lucy jerked awake. “Mmph?”

  “Am I good-looking?”

  The child nodded, her gold curls bobbing up and down on the pillow. “Verry purty,” she mumbled.

  Minutes of silence filled the basement, broken only by the sound of Lucy’s even breathing. “Huh,” Lynn finally said to herself. “Who’d’ve guessed?”

  Eleven

  A killing frost had fallen, turning the morning dew into a deadly covering of ice that stilled the insect voices. The sharp morning air ripped into Lynn’s lungs as she zipped her coveralls up to her neck. Beside her, an unrecognizable Lucy trotted loyally along, an oversized hat pulled down to her eyebrows, a scarf wrapped up to her nostrils.

  “What’re we doing today?” Her voice was muffled by the layers of fabric Lynn had covered her with before trusting her frail skin to the outdoors.

  “Gotta get wood inside. You sit if your feet start hurting you.”

  Lucy had proven less a hindrance and more a help as the days went by. Her endless energy and curiosity could be put to good use, Lynn had soon realized. Small jobs, like gathering little bits of kindling and checking the supply of sanitized water, had soon bored her, and Lynn began trusting her with more work. Her feet were still healing from cutting out the overgrown toenails, something that had been less of struggle than Lynn had anticipated.

  She’d asked Stebbs to assist, expecting crying, pleading, and a general struggle from Lucy. Her request that he hold the child down while she did the cutting had been met with a raised eyebrow and the suggestion that they try a less violent route first. After his patient, carefully worded explanation to Lucy, she had submitted gracefully to his touch, wincing and burying her head in Lynn’s lap for the worst moments. There had been tears, but no wailing. The throb after the surgery Lynn had dulled with some aspirin, after struggling with the cap. It hadn’t been removed in years.

  Lynn had debated allowing Lucy to help her haul wood in. One dropped log could send the child into a world of pain. But Lucy insisted that boredom was worse than a bloody toe, finally consenting to wearing three pairs of socks inside of an old pair of Lynn’s boots. She plodded along beside Lynn as they made their way to the pole barn, curious and comfortable.

  “All right,” Lynn said as she shoved the rolling door open. “I’ve got a wagon in here you can drag around the yard, gather all the little sticks, things we can use for kindling if our coals go out downstairs.”

  Lucy’s brows knitted and she stopped in her tracks. “That’s not a new job. You said you had a new job for me.”

  “You get to use the wagon now.” The flash of inspiration had struck Lynn on her water-gathering chores the evening before when she’d spotted her old red wagon, rusting in the dark corner.

  “That’s an old job, just with a new wagon. I wanna help you with the wood.”

  “You are helping with the wood,” Lynn insisted as she tugged on the handle to dislodge the wagon from its ancient resting place. “Kindling is wood.”

  Lucy muttered something under her breath, but it was lost inside the scarf covering her mouth. She took the handle of the wagon and trudged glumly out the door with the wagon wheels squeaking their protest. Lynn followed, warned Lucy to stay in the yard, then made her way to the wood cords on the east side of the house.

  They would make it through the winter. The basement retained heat well, especially once she dropped the woolen blanket that covered the entrance to the pantry room. There wouldn’t be much excess firewood to rely on for the next fall, which made cutting in the summer a must. How she would manage to leave the house to cut was a question she didn’t have a good answer to. The pond could not be left unguarded. She’d probably have to trade labor with Stebbs again, and even though she didn’t like the idea of needing him, the feeling of shame that usually erupted at having to ask for help had subsided a bit.

  Self-reliance had been Mother’s mantra. Nothing was more important than themselves and their belongings. Allowing Lucy into their home had gone against everything she’d learned, but leaving the little girl to die beside the stream went against something that was simply known and had never been taught. She’d shared the thought with Stebbs after they worked on Lucy’s feet. He told her it was her conscience, guiding her to the right decision.

  Having a conscience was a new experience, and one Lynn was starting to question as she regarded the sullen child tossing twigs into the rusty red wagon. Lucy would have to go back. Eli and Neva had shelter now; a few days ago, Lucy had come running down to the pond, the armload of sticks threatening to take an eye out if she fell.

  “Lynn—there’s a truck coming down the road!”

  Such a nonsensical comment had brought Lynn to her feet, sidearm in hand. They’d rushed to the roof together, Lynn impatiently smacking the little girl’s backside when she’d balked twenty feet up. The sound of an engine had been noticeable on the cold morning air, and Lynn chided herself for not hearing it sooner. She’d been distracted by the looming handle of the water bucket that should be ebbing and flowing peacefully far beneath the surface of the pond, not mere inches from it.

  The hum of the engine grew louder and Lynn saw that Lucy was right. There was a truck coming, Stebbs behind the wheel. As he passed, she saw that the bed held a chain saw and raw lumber. He waved happily, throwing his arms up in mock surrender when he saw Lynn’s gun. Lucy jumped up and down, waving back ecstatically.

  “What’s he doin’?” Lucy asked.

  “Looks like he’s going to build your mama a house.”

  Lucy stood on her tiptoes to watch as Stebbs disappeared down the road. “He’s kinda like magic, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah.” Lynn had smiled a little in spite of herself. “Kinda.”

  No amount of coercing would convince Lynn to visit the new home by the stream. “I’m sure it’s great,” she assured Stebbs as he regarded her over a shared supper in the basement. He’d brought beans with him and offered to help Lynn cut down the cured venison from the trees. It seemed rude to let him walk off into the cold evening without a warm supper. The venison had been frozen, but a few chunks cooked up nicely on the stove with the beans. Lucy sat on her cot, running her finger along the inside of the bean jar to get the last bits of sauce.

  Stebbs watched her for a second b
efore continuing. “It’s better than great. Tiny, on account of we tossed it up so fast, but Eli had a good idea. There’s a loft where they can sleep so they don’t have to roll up their bedding every morning. Wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to build, but there was some sense in it, ’cause there’s not much floor space.”

  Lynn stared moodily down at her supper. The idea of Neva and Eli snuggled together in the loft made her stomach feel funny in a way that wasn’t related to hunger.

  “That Eli, he’s a worker. Give him some food and it gets turned into pure muscle. I’m telling you, Lynn, you wouldn’t recognize the boy from the first time you saw him.”

  She grunted and studied her food.

  “Then I got lucky and found an old woodstove over at the junkyard. Nothing pretty, but it’s not too big.” He took a bite of venison, and Lynn welcomed the moment of silence while he chewed.

  Stebbs swallowed. “Cut a hole in the roof and run some piping up there and they were home, neat as pins. Doesn’t have a door though. The stove, not the house. I told them they’ll have to watch for sparks flying out of there ’til I can fix it.”

  “Until you can fix it?”

  “Sure, why not?” He took another bite of meat and spoke with his mouth full. “I got nothing else to do. You’re not exactly begging for help.”

  “I don’t need any.”

  “I see that.” He motioned toward the well-stocked pantry and the full clean water tank beyond that. “You’ll be setting even better once the little missy is off your hands.”

  “Off my hands?”

  “Sure.” Stebbs wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Now that there’s a real home over there, with her mother in it.”

  “Right, her mother. Who hasn’t asked about her once.” The swelling anger in her belly took her by surprise, and she fought hard to keep her mouth tight, her tone even.

  “Now, how would you know that? You’re not exactly the visiting type. For all you know, Neva is over there crying her eyes out over her little girl.”

  Lynn gave him a cold stare over their empty plates. “But I bet she’s not.”

  Stebbs shot a glance over at Lucy, who was busy hitting the bean can with a stick. “No, she’s not crying. But I can tell you she’s not doing so well either. Women don’t always show their emotions clearly, and that one is hurting. She lost her home, husband, and brand-new baby all at once. If she deals with it by sticking by the stream and sitting quiet, that’s her business.”

  Lynn’s eyes narrowed. “You like her.”

  “She’s pretty,” he said defensively.

  “Pretty useless.”

  They glared at each other in silence long enough for Lucy to notice the change. She kicked the can over to where they were sitting cross-legged on the floor. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just this young lady here and I having a difference of opinion, is all,” Stebbs said, rising awkwardly to his feet. “Time for me to be going, I suppose. Thanks for supper.”

  “You brought it,” Lynn said grudgingly. Happy with him or not, she wouldn’t have him thanking her for his own food.

  Stebbs sighed and winked at Lucy. “Thanks anyway. And if you get it in your head to go over that direction, there’s at least one person by the stream who I think wouldn’t mind seeing you.”

  “I can’t leave the pond.” Lynn ignored the reference to Eli, although a flush crept up her cheeks that she hoped wasn’t obvious in the dimly lit basement.

  “That the problem, is it?”

  “I was lucky the one time. Can’t count on luck.” Even days after their trip to the stream to deliver Neva’s baby, Lynn was haunted by what could have happened in her absence. “I won’t do it again.”

  Stebbs considered that for a moment. “All right then, what if I got them to come over here? Kind of like a homecoming party for the little one, when it’s time?”

  “Yeah sure, when it’s time.”

  Time passed slowly. The days were shorter now, the sun making its arc from one horizon to the other so quickly that Lynn was hard pressed to accomplish her outdoor work in the daylight hours. Lucy was a welcome helper, and their pile of kindling near the basement window was sufficient enough for two winters, but Lynn didn’t tell her to stop. Boredom would be the new enemy, she was well aware. The freezing air would drive them permanently indoors soon, where long hours would stretch.

  She stopped gathering water. Every bucketful she removed from the pond brought the handle closer to the surface. Lynn managed to convince herself that if it remained submerged, they would be fine. They were safe for the moment; the clean tank in the basement was full, as were the huge tanks in the pole barn, safe from freezing by their sheer volume. It was the future Lynn stored up against; the possibility of a snowless winter followed by a dry spring. No snowmelt meant no runoff. Since their pond wasn’t ground fed, it relied on rain and runoff for refilling. There had been no rain for weeks.

  Lynn shut the barn door behind her, drinking in the smells for the last time in a long time. The basement tank held a thousand gallons. With her daily routine at an end, she might not be back to the barn for refresher fills on the basement tank for a month. Lynn snapped the double padlocks onto the pole barn door, typically Mother’s last act before giving in to the relentless push of winter. A spasm of grief twisted her gut and she missed Mother desperately. It was so much easier when someone was there to tell her what to do, how to survive. Now she was on her own, with responsibilities she hadn’t asked for.

  Lucy responded well to the cold weather, bundling up in layers of Lynn’s old clothes and running for hours through the tall grass, enjoying the sound of the brittle stalks breaking under her feet. Soon she had a meandering maze of a trail pounded down through the unkempt yard, which Lynn could see clearly from the roof. Lucy played for hours with Red Dog, building him little houses out of sticks and destroying them with imaginary natural disasters. She wanted to simulate a flood but Lynn wouldn’t loan her the water. She settled for tornadoes and blew herself red in the face.

  She was destroying his third home of the week when a flash of movement to the east caught Lynn’s eye.

  “Lucy! To the house!” The little girl jumped to her feet and ran for cover without question.

  Lynn peered through her scope, but saw nothing. Wildlife had begun to return to the field where she had slaughtered the coyotes, but she hadn’t seen any more of the wild dogs lately. She followed the path of the road with her scope, willing the tall grass to part and give her a clear view. A breeze snuck through the weeds and spread them far enough for her to see an unnatural shade of blue moving toward the house.

  Lynn’s heart skipped a beat; her rifle barrel jumped. Strangers who walked the open road were dangerous. Mother had taught her that those who didn’t hide themselves believed they were the ones to be feared and were best dropped at a distance. Her finger clutched the trigger impulsively, but she let out a slow breath. The man had moved out of her sight behind the overgrowth of the ditch, but the breeze brought an alien sound to her ears.

  Whistling.

  “Can I come out now?” Lucy’s hesitant voice rose up from under the eaves. Lynn started and lost her grip on the rifle. The sweaty barrel struck the shingles and she reflexively covered her ears, but it did not go off.

  “Lucy,” she hissed, “go in the house.” Lynn wiped her hands on her coat and repositioned the rifle. She didn’t hear the back door opening. “Lucy,” she growled, a little louder. “Inside. Now.”

  Silence met her demand and a dark dread billowed in her stomach. “Lucy?”

  “Who is making a song?” The little voice sounded curious, yet cowed. “You don’t do that.”

  Lynn was off her elbows and down the antenna in a moment, rifle clutched in the crook of her arm. Keeping the man in her sights and her aim steady was impossible with Lucy standing in the open, every step bringing the stranger closer to spotting her. She grabbed the little girl by the elbow and yanked her inside, Red Dog trailing fro
m her other hand. When she turned right at the landing instead of heading down the stairs, Lucy quit protesting and clutched Lynn in return, the strangeness of going into the upper levels of the house quieting her.

  Lynn headed for the living room, where the two front windows looked out onto the road only ten feet away. She silently raised the window enough to slide her rifle barrel under. Lucy crouched beside her, eyes wide.

  The whistling was much louder now. He came into view slowly, hobbling on bare feet over the patchy gravel road, hands jammed into his pockets against the slight chill of the breeze. Lynn could see the stark outlines of his meager muscles under the thin covering of his goose-bumped skin. Still he whistled, each shuffling step falling in time with the tune he forced between his teeth, though it seemed it was a struggle even to breathe.

  Lynn took her own breath, exhaled partway and stilled her chest, eye to the scope. Suddenly she was very conscious of Lucy’s hand on her arm, the warmth of each tiny finger seeping into her skin.

  “He looks lonely,” the little girl said, and Lynn let out the rest of her breath in a rush, pulling away from the scope.

  “Of course he’s lonely,” she snapped. “He’s alone. Now I need you to be quiet and not touch me for a minute.”

  Lucy’s grip on Lynn’s arm tightened. “You’re not gonna shoot him, are you?”

  “I . . .” Lynn looked down at Lucy, her blue eyes wide and questioning, Red Dog tucked protectively under her elbow. “This is what I do, Lucy,” she said softly. “This is how I keep us safe.”

  “But he didn’t hurt us,” Lucy said, bewilderment bringing her fine eyebrows together over her tiny nose. “He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  Lucy’s lower lip stuck out in an expression Lynn knew all too well. “Then ask him.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not letting you shoot him ’til you know he’s a bad man.”

  “You’re kidding.”