by Amy Allgeyer
I drop the broccoli and corn back into the freezer bin. One week with no veg won’t kill us. I can’t say the same about drinking the tap water.
After a month in Ebbottsville, I don’t even think twice about using the SNAP card. I’ve seen more people with them than not, and I’m just so glad we have it, I stopped caring what other people might think. If it weren’t for SNAP, I don’t know what Granny would eat, but she definitely wouldn’t be able to afford bottled water.
My phone rings as I’m loading the groceries into the car.
“Hi, Cole.”
“Hey. Lib, I got some bad news.”
For some reason, I think instantly of Dobber. “What is it?”
“I can’t go to Jason’s party tonight.”
“Oh.” I try not to sound like the highlight of my week has just been canceled. “That sucks. Why not?”
“Mom says it’s family dinner night. She springs that on us every once in a while.”
“It sounds nice actually.” I bet they have pot roast with potatoes and carrots. Or fried chicken and mashed potatoes. And some kind of pie for dessert … apple or maybe cherry. My mouth is watering like crazy and I have to swallow before I can speak. “No worries. I guess I’ll see you at church tomorrow?”
“Abso-damn-lutely.”
“Okay. Have fun tonight.”
He snorts into the phone. “Unlikely. I’ll be missing you.”
“Aw. I’ll miss you too.”
“You better.”
I swear I can hear his dimples, and it makes me smile. After I hang up, I get in the car, put the keys in the ignition, and just sit there. I do not want to be one of those needy girls who has no life outside her boyfriend. I don’t. So why am I so bummed about this? It’s one freaking night, not the end of the world.
I start the car, not wanting to admit the truth. That he is my world. It’s not like I can go hang out with my girlfriends instead. Cole’s the only game in town for me. My throat closes a little at the realization that that’s exactly how he described the mine.
On the drive back to Granny’s though, the air feels great and the sun lights up the green-gold tree buds like neon twinkle lights. I blare the music as loud as it will go until I lose the signal in the rocks. Then I sing to myself—songs from TV commercials, Lady Gaga, whatever I can think of. Windows down, I’m belting out “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” at the top of my lungs when I pull up in the yard and see, of all people, Dobber sitting on the front porch with Granny.
Head. Steering wheel.
“Well, you gotta give her a A for effort,” Granny says as I climb out of the car.
Dobber jumps the porch railing and drops into the front yard in one easy movement. Guys are so hot when they do that stuff. I don’t think they have any idea. “Need some help?” he asks.
“Sure.” I hand him the cartons of water and grab the other two bags myself.
We get everything put away in the kitchen and Granny says, “I’ma let y’all set on the porch and talk while I take a lil’ rest.”
“Really?” If it were Cole on the porch, she’d be out there with a garden hoe and a can of pepper spray.
I hold the door open for Dobber and watch Granny settle on the couch with her blanket. “You need anything?” I ask.
“Naw, sugarplum. You go on outside with your friend.”
I have no idea what’s going on in her head—if she just likes Dobber better than Cole or if it’s a matter of boyfriend versus friend. Either way, Dobber is standing on my front porch, staring across the mud lawn that’s just starting to sprout green, like he belongs there.
“Nice day,” he says. He’s wearing a sweaty T-shirt that’s maybe two sizes too small, meaning it’s perfect, and a pair of cut-off sweatpants that remind me of the debacle at Cole’s house last weekend.
“What are you doing here?”
There’s that smile … totally dangerous. “I was out for a run and found myself in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.”
“Welcome the new girl?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
I’m well aware Granny’s listening to everything we say, so I head down the steps. “Walk with me?”
“A’ight.”
I head for the ridge trail because it’s the only path I know well. Walking single file uphill, we don’t have a chance to talk until we reach the top. Tanner’s Peak looks just as raw and wounded as it did when I first saw it, and it makes me think about our conversation at lunch the other day.
“What Peabody did to your dad … it’s so unfair.”
“No shit.”
“Why’d you want me to know all that?”
He stares across the valley at the acres of bald mountainside. “Your granny’s sick, ain’t she?”
“She’s …” I still can’t bring myself to use the C word. “We don’t know really.”
“But she ain’t well?”
“No,” I admit. “She’s not well.”
He nods and turns back to the mine. I think there’s another whole set of roads over there now. Like they’ve been clearing farther and farther to each side. I wonder if they have a limit or if they could just keep on going—blasting the top off the next mountain and the next and the next—all the way to Tennessee.
“My daddy ain’t well neither.”
“Cole told me. I’m sorry.”
“You think it’s the water making people sick?”
I pause. Up to now, I’ve been the one asking questions about the mine. It feels weird to be on the other end. “Maybe. It’s happening in a lot of other places with that kind of mine nearby.”
“The people from the county though, they come out and tested our water.”
“They tested Granny’s too and said it was safe to drink.”
“Y’all drink it?”
“No, but Granny did for a while.”
We’re standing side by side staring at the ant-size men working across the valley. I’m conscious of Dobber’s elbow nearly touching mine and wonder if Cole knows he’s here. Or if Dobber will tell him. Or if I will.
“Liberty?”
“Hm?”
He’s staring at me now, his gray-brown eyes squinting against the sun. “Be careful. A’ight? That there”—he jerks his thumb toward the mine—“that ain’t nothing to be playing with. Peabody’ll hurt you if you get in his way.”
“I’ll be careful.” Trying to lighten the moment, I say, “Besides, I’ve got you and Cole to keep me straight.”
His shoulders go stiff and his forehead creases with frown lines.
It’s so uncharacteristic—Dobber frowning. “What?” I ask. “What’s that face for?”
“Just … what I said.” He turns and walks toward the trailhead. “Be careful. Real careful.”
As he ducks into the thicket, I get the impression he’s telling me to be careful of more than just the mine.
Sixteen
I stare across the valley until I’m sure Dobber’s gone, then hike down the trail myself. Granny’s sitting in her chair on the porch, wrapped in her fleece, and … GAH! Smoking.
“What the hell are you doing? For God’s sake, your lungs are bleeding.”
“My lungs ain’t bleeding. That’s just some red guck.” But she stubs the cigarette out on the porch railing. Sparks fall to the ground and dust her dirty white tennis shoes with ashes.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask.
“Thought I’d take me a walk. It’s such a glorious day … be a shame to waste it setting inside.”
Granny and I used to walk all over the farm, all sixty-three acres. There are corners of it I haven’t seen in years. “Mind if I come with you?”
“I’d be pleased for the company, sugarplum, but ain’t you got a date to get ready for?”
“Change of p
lans,” I say. “Cole’s family is having some together time tonight.” Though after Dobber’s reaction when I mentioned Cole’s name, I’m wondering if there’s more to that story.
“Together time, huh?” Granny struggles out of the chair and lays the fleece across the rail. “That Quentin sure is a nice boy.”
“Who?”
“I ain’t see’d him in a few years. He surely got big.”
I realize Quentin must be Dobber’s first name. How weird I’ve never heard it before. Even the teachers call him Dobber.
“He’s nice,” I say, remembering how Cole insisted I not mention that first party being at the Dobbers’ house. Now, I’m wondering why. “Do you know his dad?”
“I do. Been ages since I see’d him though.” Granny takes my arm and we start down the driveway. Silkie and Beethoven take off ahead of us, panting and chasing noises in the woods. Old Goldie trails along behind us, nudging our hands for the occasional scratch. “They used to come to church,” says Granny. “The Dobbers. That was before she went off.”
“She?”
“Quentin’s mama.”
“Oh. I thought his mom died. She just left?”
“Ran off. Or got sent away.” Granny shakes her head. “There was two schools of thought on that.”
“Sent away by who?”
“The sorry piece of crap she was having an affair with. Robert Peabody.”
I stop in the middle of the drive. “She was having an—”
“I just said that, didn’t I?” Granny pulls me along. “One morning, she took Quentin to day care and just never came back. There was a rumor she ran off to be with some builder man in Louisville. But I don’t believe that myself.”
“What do you think?”
“I believe she got herself knocked up with a little baby mine boss.”
Granny has her head bent close to me, like she’s telling FBI secrets instead of wagering on small town history. “When Peabody found out, I’m thinking he run her out of town. Last I heard, she was living over in Clay County. Had a daughter couple years younger’n you.”
“Did she at least keep in touch with Dobber? I mean, she’s his mom.”
“Not such that I know of. I expect Peabody warned her off keeping any ties back here. He was married his own self. Wouldn’t want that story getting back to his wife.”
“Poor Dobber.” If Granny’s right, Peabody took away both his parents.
Just past the haunted birdhouses, we turn left into the woods. I vaguely remember this trail winding down to the creek and Granddaddy’s secret crawdad hole. He paid me a dime for each one I caught and a quarter if I ate one.
“Granddaddy got a deal,” I say. “I bought some crawdads at our fancy food market once, and they were fifteen dollars a pound.”
Granny laughs. “Maybe you oughta start up a export business!”
But I’m thinking about something else. “Or maybe I’ll just catch some for dinner.” My mouth is already watering. Why haven’t I thought of this before? “I could boil them with rice, Old Bay, and some wild onion.”
“Oh my, that does sound like a de-light!”
My stomach is growling like crazy. “Wait right here,” I say. “I’ll go get the buckets.”
I run back to the house and rummage around in the shed until I find two old metal pails, one large, one small, and some gardening gloves. It’s been a while since I fished for crawdads and the idea of grabbing them barehanded creeps me out. I toss the gloves into the buckets and head back to where Granny waits in the woods. She’s leaning on the old split-rail fence when I get there.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m just waitin’ on you, slowpoke. What took you so long?”
“Your shed’s a disorganized mess, that’s what.” I shake the buckets at her. “Let’s go catch us some dinner.”
We follow the overgrown path toward the sound of a rippling creek. It gets damper and greener the closer we get. Around the last turn, a huge boulder appears and below it, a small, sandy beach. “This is it,” I say. “Granddaddy’s secret crawdad hole.” I’m more excited about these crawdads than I was about the regional volleyball tournament last year.
“I declare, it looks just the same as I remember it.”
It does, mostly. Except the water’s really muddy and there’s some weird foam caught in the rocks on the far side. Somebody must’ve soaped up in the creek, upstream.
“You see any crawdads in there, Libby?”
“I can’t see anything.” I kick my shoes off and roll up my jeans. “But they’re there, all right. And I’m going to find them.”
Goldie stretches out on the sand. The other two dogs are long gone, chasing squirrels. Granny sits down on a log in the sun, and I feel like I’m ten years old again.
“Beware, creatures of underwater land. I am the crawdad slayer. Prepare to be captured!”
“You get ’em, sugarplum.”
I wade into the water with the small bucket, wearing the garden gloves. “God, it’s freezing!” Avoiding the weird, foamy stuff, I creep upstream to where the creek narrows. The water runs faster here. I start at the edges, where it’s shallower. Since I can’t really see the bottom, I just scoop up a pail full of creek bottom as fast as I can. The first couple times, I just turn up mud. But as I pick up the third one, I see something darting around in my bucket. I reach in and feel around until I pin something wiggly against the side of the pail. A nice, big crawdad.
“Woo-hoo!” I grab it below the front claws and show it to Granny.
“Oh, that’s a nice one, Liberty.” She holds out the larger bucket. “He’ll be good eatin’!”
“Heck yeah, he will.” His shell clatters as I drop him in. “Put some water in there so he can breathe.”
“I know what to do with a crawdad. You just go on and catch us some more.”
I wade back upstream and try again. There are tons of crawdads in the creek, more than I’ve ever seen. Maybe people don’t fish for them anymore. I definitely can’t imagine Ashleigh eating one.
“We’re gonna have us a veritable feast, darling!” Granny says, looking into her pail where four fat crustaceans are scrabbling around. I’m thinking about how good the claw meat will taste drenched in butter. But as I hand the fifth one to Granny, I notice something. Something not right.
I freeze, the crawdad hovering over the mouth of the bucket.
“What’s wrong?” Granny says. “Drop it in.”
“Granny.” My watering mouth is now trying not to gag. “Look. His head.”
Really, that isn’t grammatically correct. Because there isn’t just one head. There are two. A Siamese twin crawdad. Like the fish I saw pictures of on the End Mountaintop Removal Mining website. Two heads. Two tails. Too many fins. Too many eyes.
Mutants.
I fling the crawdad across the creek and run onto the beach, pulling the garden gloves off and scrubbing my hands on my jeans. “Gross.”
Granny stares into the bucket. “These fellers look all right. Reckon they’re safe to eat?”
“Probably not. They mutate because the water is polluted. Even the normal ones are bad.” I take the bucket and dump our dinner back into the creek.
Granny sighs. “That’s a right shame. I had a awful hankering for a crawdad boil. Reckon we can have some other kinda feast?”
I sit on the wet sand, staring at the creek. My stomach is gnawing on itself and I don’t have the heart to tell it, or Granny, there’s nothing for dinner but plain rice.
Maybe that one crawdad was just a freak. Maybe everything else is okay. Maybe if I caught a fish—
The bucket crashes against the boulder behind me and I look up to see Granny, red-faced and shaking. “He ruint it,” she says. “Ruint our farm. Ever’ blessed bit of it.”
Tears roll down her cheeks. I ju
mp up and put my arms around her. “It’s okay, Granny. We’ll be okay.”
But she isn’t listening to me. She’s sobbing. I hold her tighter, squeezing her together, because it feels like she’s coming apart. She’s the strongest person I know, but I can feel her breaking. And no matter how tight I hold her, she just keeps crying and saying the same words over and over.
“Goddam Peabody.”
Seventeen
Granny goes straight to bed when we get back to the house and falls right to sleep. I spend the afternoon cleaning—mopping up the dogs’ muddy footprints in the kitchen and wiping away the dust that somehow gets in even when the windows are closed. Another benefit of being downwind of a mountaintop removal mine. I do a load of laundry and, despite the obscene amount of bleach I add, the whites all come out slightly peach colored. Again.
Around six, I dump a can of tomato soup into a pan and heat it up. After my dreams of a crawdad feast, I just can’t face plain rice. Not that tomato soup is any sort of substitute for sweet, crabby crawdad meat dipped in garlic butter, with some crusty bread …
Sigh.
I fix a tray for Granny with crackers and the last Mountain Dew as a treat. I’m just about to take it in to her when my phone rings. Maybe Cole got done with family stuff early. That might salvage the night from total crapitude.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is Dr. Lang. From the clinic?”
My heart leaps into my throat and I choke out, “Yes?”
“I came into the office to pick up some work and found the results of Mrs. Briscoe’s x-rays had been faxed. Is this … Are you her granddaughter?”
“Yes. Liberty.” I want so badly to know what those results say, but I’m also afraid to ask because the answer could change our lives.
“I’d like you to bring your grandmother in to talk about the results.”