Damn right I could.
I stopped and turned around. “I know!” I screamed at Wendell.
“Know what?”
I wanted to take a giant eraser and wipe that stupid confused look off his face.
“If you don’t know, then lucky you. If you do know, then you’re a rat. A cruel, effed-up rat.”
I jerked my head upward, convinced I could spot tiny glass eyes among the pecans. I wondered if there were microphones hidden in the branches; if we were no different than the characters in 1984 or The Hunger Games. I wanted to run through Sweet Sugar Gap screaming that I was done playing Laura Ingalls. That what they were doing to me and my family was brutal and unfair.
“Brooke…”
But I had turned away.
Mr. Murphy called out, “Wendell, get in the wagon. It’s getting late.”
I heard Wendell’s boots as they shuffled through the gravel away from me. I heard the horse snort, then the sound of wagon wheels. As the Murphy family made its way past, I kept my head turned in the other direction.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Snyder and Mitchell had disappeared by the next morning. Their packs were no longer in the barn. Where they went we did not know, but there was no trace of either one, though a large chunk of homemade cheese was missing from the springhouse.
Dad asked me no questions regarding what had happened at the party, probably too afraid to dig for answers, especially after the Duffys’ expulsion. Anyway, Dad was a smart man who could put two and two together without trying. He didn’t need any answers from me, even if I had them.
Life was easier pretending Prudence was a stranger who lived in the pretty house on the hill, pretending Rusty and Carl and all the other camera people were invisible, pretending that Wendell and I were never a thing.
Ha, I thought. Maybe we never were.
Nanny came down to our cabin, always the faithful servant, to tell me how upset Prudence was. But living out here in the sticks had turned me into a grumpy old mule, and I curtly told her I had nothing to say to her or Prudence. I did my chores, made do with the little bit of food we had left, and never spoke a word of what I knew. My family needed the money. And that was that.
We had morphed into exactly what the producers hoped for: a true mid-1800’s family, struggling to make it in the backcountry. During the last few weeks of filming, my little sister turned into a wild child, discarding her bonnet, feeding the chickens shoeless, hiding in the barn while I washed my dirty feet in the soapy bucket. Her baby voice had vanished, too, which ironically, I missed. Dad grew super quiet, digging up whatever vegetables or roots he could from a garden that no longer made him proud. The entire Decker family felt the shift from worrying about how we appeared on camera, to where our next meal would come from.
Funny how priorities change when you’re hungry all the time.
Wendell stopped visiting, which told me all I needed to know. I asked to skip church for the rest of our stay in the backcountry. Dad let me, and for that I was relieved. It was more important to worry about survival than a boy who pretends to be something he’s not. We were down to living on apples, grapes, eggs, dairy products, and scraps of fatty ham. My dad wanted to go fishing, but after the bear incident, we weren’t about to go near the pool. He traded some firewood with Mr. Murphy for flour and corn meal. I, however, did not make the trek to town.
On our last Sunday in Sweet Sugar Gap, Dad came home from church with an announcement: “There’s going to be a September feast down on the schoolhouse grounds. An early Thanksgiving. There’ll be a campfire, and food…and Brooke, everyone asks that you bring your guitar. For the final get-together.”
Since that memorable night at the Millers’ house, I had picked up the instrument only once. My fingers couldn’t seem to arrange themselves into proper chords; my voice couldn’t sing without cracking.
Rebecca Lynn pushed her greasy hair from her forehead. “What should we bring?”
“We’ve been asked to bring apples and grapes,” Dad said. “If there’s anything left.”
“I’m ready for a hamburger at Spunky McDoogle’s.”
“One more week. Let’s make this feast the finish line. Everyone is happy to pitch in.”
In a pissy voice, I added, “They’re only being nice because—” but I stopped myself. The lines on Dad’s face had softened, either because our venture was coming to a close and there would hopefully be a check waiting for him, or because we were about to have a real feast. Either way, I didn’t want to ruin that hopeful look for anything in the world.
“Because what?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Rebecca Lynn, grab the basket. We’ve got some fruit to pick.”
The leaves on the elms and oaks changed almost overnight from bright green to gold and copper, like they were dressing up for Sweet Sugar Gap’s final feast.
We were last to arrive, and the sun was still warm. As we parked the wagon near the others in the schoolhouse yard, I spotted a small homemade flag sticking up from a chunk of wood in the center of the table, eleven stars instead of nine. Surrounding the flag were platters of food: a large wild turkey and a ham were the main dishes. Cranberry relish, sweet potato pie, steamed collards, turkey gravy, cornbread stuffing, pumpkin muffins, and bread pudding rounded out the meal. Dad and my sister carried our baskets to the table as I deliberately took my time at the wagon.
While Rusty and Carl and the other camera people moved around the grounds videotaping one thing or another, I spotted Wendell in the crowd and turned my head away. This wasn’t going to be easy, ignoring him and Prudence, but it had to be done. If I spoke, I was bound to make a scene, much to my dad’s dismay. Couldn’t take that chance this late in the game. Better if I said nothing. Dine and dash.
All the townspeople, minus the Duffys, were in attendance. The minister sat at the head of the table, his wife on his right. Nanny and Josiah sat on a couple of tree stumps tending to the fire. Each child sat with his or her family along the two benches. I squeezed in between Rebecca Lynn and Dad so I wouldn’t be obligated to speak to anyone. Everyone regarded my family with bright smiles and few words. Maybe they were afraid if they sparked too much conversation, I would start asking questions. Maybe they were sad the venture was nearly over.
The minister bowed his head. “We thank Thee, God, for giving us the strength to enjoy your land to the fullest, to develop cooperation and form friendships in the most unlikely of places, and to carry those friendships in our hearts forever…”
Forever? I would never see these people again, so what was he talking about forever for? I would not become besties with Prudence, who probably lived in a funky apartment over a vinyl record store in Hollywood.
As we prayed, I glanced up to find Wendell staring at me. He offered a weak smile, but I shut my eyes and tried to pay attention to the minister’s words.
“And so, dear Lord, we ask in Your name that we feast today on the bounty of Your land, not for the last time, but for the first time, for every moment is a chance to begin again. Amen.”
Platters and baskets made their way around the table. Meats and breads and sides quickly disappeared. For the first time in weeks, my stomach felt happy, but my heart was filled with sadness. After dessert, a bonfire threw sparks high into the air as thoughts of permanently removing my tight shoes and stiff corset settled into the modern part of my brain.
My dad went to the wagon. He brought my guitar back to the bonfire and handed it to me. At first I only stared at it, like it was as foreign to me as a cow’s udder used to be. Dad said, “This is it, Brooke. We’ll never have this opportunity again. Ever.”
He’s right. This is it. The end of the line. We can all go back to our dishwashers and HEPA filter vacuums and Facebook and Netflix. Soon we’ll be staring at our computers and oversized televisions like we’d just won them on a game show, and living large in our beach condos and suburban houses.
That is, if we get to keep our house.
I tuned my guitar by rote. With all of the children sitting on the ground or on their mother’s knee, and everyone silently staring into the fire, I played a song I felt was the most appropriate. It was one Wendell had taught me, one he said was his favorite, and now I believed it was my favorite, too. He watched me intently from across the fire. With the guitar in my hands, I closed my eyes. As my fingers plucked at the strings on their own, I pictured Wendell’s thick hand in mine, and the way his lips felt when they kissed me, and I thought, I can almost forgive you.
As the heat of the bonfire warmed my face, I sang:
“Do you remember the paths where we met? / Long, long ago, long, long ago. / Ah, yes, you told me you’d never forget, / Long, long ago, long ago. / Then to all others my smile you preferred, / Love, when you spoke, gave a charm to each word. / Still my heart treasures the phrases I heard, / Long, long ago, long ago…”
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I was convinced I wanted to go home. But now, in this moment, singing beside the fire, I thought about Willow’s sweet snort as I brushed her; Gretchen’s smile after being milked; the ugly but sweet Bambi who had sacrificed her life for a family she thought was her own. I remembered burning my first pot of coffee and my silly fear of the springhouse; of Rebecca Lynn nearly slicing off her leg; of surviving the hurricane; of the way the nighttime wrapped itself around the cabin while we rocked on the porch at sunset, the crickets and bullfrogs like a chorus.
I am singing the song of the backcountry. The song of the pioneers. Of the families who moved out to the middle of nowhere to start a new life, to live off the land. To live a harder, yet, at the same time, a simpler life.
With my eyes still closed, I sang through my tears:
“But by long absence your truth has been tried, / Still to your accents I listen with pride. / Blessed as I was when I sat by your side, / Long, long ago, long ago…”
Wendell joined in on the chorus, his deep voice complementing my own, but it ruined the song because I didn’t need any of his help. Then I felt a hand on my knee and my fingers froze. The only sound was the fire crackling. My eyes opened. Wendell sat beside me. It seemed like everyone had stopped breathing, waiting to see what I would do.
I’m sure I surprised them all when I stood up and handed Wendell the guitar. In a voice that matched the quiet of the evening, I said, “Why don’t you finish it? You seem to be an expert at making things better for everyone. Why don’t you just go ahead and play it yourself?” I walked away from the fire and headed to the wagon.
Wendell called from behind me, “Brooke, don’t do this. It’s our last night together.”
I didn’t respond as I grabbed a lantern from the wagon, lit it, and stroked Willow’s mane. “I’ll see you back at the homestead,” I whispered to the horse. It was a long walk, but I knew the way. My feet would hurt, but that was alright.
By the fire, Wendell said something to my dad, handed him the guitar, and approached the wagon. “Brooke. Please.”
“Please what?”
“Stay.”
“Why? So you can give the producers the dramatic ending they’ve been waiting for?” Willow nodded her head up and down. “I’ll take you home,” she seemed to say. I agreed. This was a good night for a ride. Forget about walking. Dad and Rebecca Lynn can hitch a ride with the Miller clan. I climbed onto the buckboard. It was my first time at the reins with the wagon attached, but I felt confident. Four months of survival does that to a girl, whether she’s ready for it or not. “Out of my way, Wendell Murphy.”
He took a step back as I pulled on the reins and slowly led the wagon up the dirt path leading away from the school grounds.
Dad shouted, “Brooke!”
“I’ll get her,” Wendell returned.
I guided Willow onto the bumpy road. I could hear Wendell’s boot steps as he ran behind us, trying to catch up. I choked the reins and sped up. As I made a left onto the road, Wendell managed to grab a hold of the side of the wagon.
“Get off!” I screamed.
He hoisted his leg over the side before falling into the back of the wagon. He stumbled back and forth as I tried to keep Willow from tripping in the ruts. He climbed over the back of the seat and landed on his rear beside me. He tried to pull the reins from my hands, but I jerked them away.
“Stop this!” he shouted. “You’ll get hurt.”
“Get hurt?” I laughed sarcastically.
He tried to take the reins again. “Brooke, I’m not kidding.”
“Neither am I.”
The wagon bounced up and down on the uneven road. My hands flew up into the air and the reins disappeared, falling into the gap along the wagon’s front. Wendell leaned forward and reached down, nearly losing his balance. Willow was galloping now. I grabbed onto the back of Wenedll’s shirt as he stuck his arm in the space, and pulled him back. He fell onto the buckboard and yanked hard on the reins. “Whoa!” Willow obeyed and came to a stop, snorting at the sudden change of plans.
“What are you, crazy?” Wendell scolded.
“Probably.”
He grabbed my arm. “Stop acting like this.”
“Leave me alone.”
I pulled from his grip and jumped down from the wagon. Behind me, the bonfire had turned into a tiny star at the bottom of the hill. I could barely make out the people flitting about the flames like moths, probably deciding what to do about that crazy Decker girl.
“Take the wagon back to my dad,” I told Wendell. “I’ll walk home.”
“You can’t. It’s too far in the dark.”
“Then I’ll run.”
In my hands I collected my skirts and started running up the road. I planned to run all the way back to the cabin. What was a couple of miles? I’d worked hard these past few months, and my legs and lungs were as strong as a work horse. Maybe I’d play sports again when I got back to school. Back to My Real Life, in The Real World, if it was still there waiting for me.
I was actually moving at a good pace when I tripped and fell in a rut, landing hard on my knees, my hands too busy holding my dress to stop my fall.
“Brooke!” Wendell rushed to my side. He plunked down beside me in the middle of the road. One of my buns had unwound, and I foolishly tried to tuck the loose hair under my bonnet. The trickling of water in a tributary sounded on my right. A tiny frog jumped across the road.
“Don’t cry,” Wendell said, touching my back. “What can I do?”
“Say it. Say that you’re a liar.”
“I’m not a liar, Brooke. I’m an actor. There’s a difference.”
“Ha!”
“I signed a contract to—”
“Go to hell.”
“Whoa. That wasn’t necessary.”
“Did Wendell the actor just say that? Or Wendell the sweet country bumpkin?”
“The Wendell who meant everything he told you.”
“No, you didn’t. Just like Prudence didn’t mean everything. Or tell me everything. Like how she’s done Honda commercials and has electricity.”
Wendell sighed, and it came out like a whistle. “I have a different contract than the Millers.”
“What about the other families?”
“They each have their own contract.”
“A contract to lie.”
A panting figure came up the road, but with the fire in the background, I could only make out a silhouette.
“I was instructed to make your life more bearable,” Wendell said.
“And Prudence?”
The panting shape came into view. Prudence said, “My job was to make your life more difficult. To add some spice early on.”
“Don’t even talk to me.” I stood up and brushed off my dress as if that would make things better. The road ahead disappeared into complete darkness. My rash moment of bravado waned as I remembered clearly the sharp teeth and angry eyes of the bear.
“We were only doing what we were told,” Prudence said.
“If your job was to mess
with me, why did you suddenly want to be my best friend?”
“It was fun at first, getting into the role of the snotty rich girl. An actress’s dream, really. But I couldn’t stand treating you that way. Acting job or not. And treating Nanny and Josiah like crap every time you came around. It made me sick. Then after your garden was destroyed, I called Novak myself. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced him the ratings would soar if I had a change of heart. If you and I actually became friends.”
“So it was all for ratings,” I said.
“Not all.”
“Definitely not all,” Wendell added.
“Who else besides you two were hired as actors?”
Wendell said quietly, “Everyone.”
I found this impossible to believe. “Even the kids? Even your brothers?”
He nodded.
“What about the Duffys? They got kicked out.”
“Contract dispute.”
“What about the beer you found in their barn?”
“I’ve never been in their barn.”
I was dreaming. That had to be it. One hard shake and I’d wake up in my old bed in Modern Land. But no one shook me.
I thought about the townspeople, how they’d shown up just as I was having a meltdown; the kind women who had cooked in my kitchen like real neighbors; the doctor who had met me in his driveway, like he knew about Rebecca Lynn’s accident ahead of time. Everyone had nailed their parts perfectly, like they’d had months to rehearse before our family showed up. I touched my locket, realizing how it had come to me just when I needed it most. There was Prudence and her model’s skin and Broadway singing voice. Wendell and all the songs he knew from the 1800s, and his perfect dialect. Nanny and Josiah, the ideal slaves. I could just as easily have been standing on the back lot of Paramount Studios.
“You and your family are the stars of the show,” Wendell was saying. “We’re just the bit players.”
“Are there hidden cameras everywhere?” I whispered.
“Just about.”
Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town Page 26