I sat back down and watched her disappear into the corn. Blue looked at me, and I whispered, "You'd better go with her." He slipped off the porch and into the corn just a few rows south of hers.
When dark came, I was about to go find her when Amos drove around the side of the house. His truck was muddy, he was driving fast, and he was half hanging out the window.
He tilted back his black baseball cap. "You coming?"
I had no idea what he was talking about.
"Come on, Ivory. Check the calendar."
I looked toward the house and back at him, but still nothing clicked into place.
He shook his head. "D.S., you need a keeper." He opened the passenger door and sat with the truck running. "Come on, get in. "
I looked off into the corn, then back at Amos. "Where we going?"
"Pastor John's house."
"Why?"
He frowned and looked at his watch. "Dummy, it's your birthday." He let the words sink in. "I never met anyone who forgot his own birthday."
I looked toward the river. "My birthday?"
I pointed out into the corn to tell him why I couldn't come, when Maggie walked out. Her knees were dirty, and the hair on the sides of her face was stuck to her temples. She walked to Amos's side window and asked, "Is Amanda at home?"
Surprised, Amos nodded. "Hey, Maggs." He opened the truck door and slid off the seat. "How you doing, honey?"
Maggie walked up the porch steps, opened the front door, and turned around. A pained smile hung on her face. She crossed her arms. "I've got some things I want to bring her."
Amos looked at me, and I shrugged slightly. He nodded. "Well, I'm sure she'll like that."
Maggie walked inside and shut the door quietly behind her.
He spoke to me, but his mouth faced the door. "We thought if we gave you two some time, things might improve." Maggie's footsteps faded off into the back of the house. "Guess not."
I put a finger in the air just as Blue appeared out at the edge of the corn. "Give me just a minute."
I walked inside and down the hall through our construction site. The house was still a wreck. The walls and attic had been gutted, and if you looked up, you could see the underside of the new aluminum sheet roofing. I found Maggie sitting on the dusty floor of what was once our bedroom, looking out the back window toward the river.
"Maggs, Amos invited us to Pastor John's house tonight for dinner. You want to come?"
She turned, shook her head, and said, "No, you go." She paused and looked back out the window toward the oak that towered above our son's grave. "Tell Amanda I'll bring some things by tomorrow."
The thought of Maggie getting out sounded good, so I said, "I'll drive you. Maybe we could go to Ira's or DQ."
She nodded, but there was no conviction in it.
I stepped back out in the hall. "I'll check on you when I get in." I reached to pull the door shut, but she raised a hand.
"You can leave it open."
I stepped off the porch as Amos stepped out of the barn. "You ought to feed that pig every now and then. She might like you a bit more."
I nodded. "I think I'd better hang around here."
Blue hopped up on the porch and up onto the swing. He laid his nose on his front paw and let out a deep breath.
Amos shook his head. "I think that's about the smartest dog I've ever seen."
I nodded.
"And that pig is quite possibly the nastiest animal I've ever seen." He said something else, but I didn't hear him. Then he punched me in the shoulder and said, "Hey, you in there?"
"Huh?"
"I said, `When did you move back into the house?'"
"Oh, that. Well, we haven't."
He looked toward our bedroom window where Maggie's shadow was moving around. "And?"
I shrugged. "She talks less, cries more."
Amos climbed into his truck. On the seat next to him sat a manila folder, thick with photographs. I leaned into the open passenger-side window and eyed the folder. Amos gathered the folder and set it on the dashboard. "Those will not help you sleep at night."
I looked at him. "Then how do you?"
"I don't."
"Me either."
MAGGIE AND I SAT AT THE LAUNDROMAT IN Walterboro trying to sift through several loads of clothing. Mostly mine. I'm the dirty one. Our washer and dryer had been out of commission since the fire burst the pipes that ran through the crawl space in the attic. We thought the appliances themselves were relatively untouched, but we wouldn't know until the plumber showed up, and that might not be until next week. So we sat in the incredibly hot dryer room while the television above played some soap opera. When one of the short episodes flashed back to a woman who was trying to get pregnant, I stood up and turned it off.
Trying to lighten the heaviness, I slipped a pair of my boxer shorts over my head and poked my ears out the leg holes. Maggie was not impressed, but she smiled, even laughed a bit, and then threw a pair of jeans at me. I took the underwear off my head before someone walked in and I embarrassed us both. With my luck, Mr. Sawyer from the adoption agency would appear, and our chances of appeal would vanish.
Earlier yesterday I had stamped my appeal letter and asked for a hearing before the committee to plead our case. According to the letter I had received, an appeal was granted at request and they'd inform me via a phone call-which also had me scared-within two days of receiving my letter.
I pulled a white load from the washer and immediately realized my mistake: I had put a red T-shirt in with the whites. The entire load looked like a chemistry experiment gone bad. All of my underwear and T-shirts were red, which was sort of funny, but then Maggie's white cotton gown came out looking pink and splotchy. There was little we could do, so I threw the whole load in the dryer and started it spinning.
Maggie needed a few things, so I sent her on ahead to the drugstore next door and told her I'd finish folding as soon as things were dry. I fluffed, folded, and dropped the three baskets in the van before catching up with her.
The air in the store was filled with what sounded like three kids arguing over a toy. An overloaded mom with one child on her hip, one tugging on her shorts, and two more rolling in the aisle at her feet, fighting over a wooden airplane, was the center of attention and distraction.
I found Maggie two aisles over. Listening. Leaning against the greeting cards. She was trembling, trying not to lose it, and she fell on me when I walked up alongside her. She buried her face in my chest and clutched my shirt. I turned her, and we walked slowly from the store, having forgotten what we came for.
When we got home, Maggie had collected herself enough to walk inside and put on a pot of coffee. The answering machine was blinking at me, and I punched it without thinking.
"Hello, Dr. and Mrs. Styles, this is Kayla Sommers at the Charleston Adoption Agency."
Maggie froze, holding the percolator under the faucet.
"We received your letter of appeal and have set your date with the committee for Monday, August 13."
Two more weeks. I wasn't sure we'd last another day. Maggie's eyes were lost out the kitchen window, across the cotton toward the river.
Kayla continued, ". . . is scheduled for 10:00 AM. Please try to be on time." Her voice fell to a whisper. "They prefer you are early."
Maggie set the percolator in the sink and walked quietly outside and onto the porch while the water overflowed the container.
I followed her. "Honey, I was going to tell you. I just ..."
She touched my arm gently and shook her head. "That's-" She folded her arms and, despite the 94-degree heat, stepped into the cotton and didn't look back.
A LIGHT RAIN WOKE ME BEFORE THE SUN ON SATURDAY morning. I lifted my head and listened to the heavy drops as they pounded the corn and made their way to the house. Seconds later, they hammered the tin roof above. The warmth beneath the sheets told me Maggie lay beside me. I reached across the mattress and found her back turned to me and her body rolled into a ball. I d
oubted she was asleep.
I stood, scratched my head, and climbed downstairs, leaning against the barn door. The itch and high-pitched sound in my ear broke my gaze on the river. I swatted the mosquito, but he'd already bitten me. My fingers crawled around my neck and found that he hadn't been alone.
I hurried across the yard, sat on the railing, and rested my head on my knee, listening to the deluge. Rainwater gathered in the rows and trickled in tiny creeks down toward the river. With this much rain in such a short amount of time, the ground could not absorb it all. Most of it would run to the river and raise the water level a foot or so.
I grabbed one of Maggie's two remaining watermelons off the porch and slit it down the middle. Cracking it open, I gave half to Blue, who sank his muzzle directly into the meat. I sat my half on my lap and slowly began cutting out the heart. It was sweet, perfect, and only served to impress upon me the gulf that had spread between Maggie and me.
I grabbed a paper plate from the kitchen, cut a large piece of melon, and walked to the barn, where I climbed back up to the loft. I knocked quietly and waited. When she said nothing, I turned the knob and pushed. With the sun just coming over the pasture, I could see her lying in bed, turned on her side, facing away from me. I sat on the edge of the bed and held the plate in my lap, "I brought you some watermelon."
Maggie said nothing.
I placed my hand on her bare shoulder and shook her ever so gently.
She lifted the covers over her shoulder and covered her head with a pillow.
The ceiling fan above us had been set on "tornado," so I clicked it twice to "gentle breeze." I whispered, "Maggs?"
She made no response. Dr. Frank had said that while her emotions and hormones got squared away, I'd do well to give her some space. Well, I'd done that, and the more I gave her, the more she took. I shook her gently again. "Maggs?"
Without warning, she sat up in bed, turned toward me, and looked me square in the eyes. Hers were puffy and covered in red streaks, and they told me she'd been crying. I opened my mouth to say something, but she pointed her crooked, doublejointed finger in my face. Her voice was low and on the verge of cracking. "Don't."
"Maggs, I know you're hurting, but-"
"No!" she screamed. She grabbed the plate of watermelon and hurled it across the room, covering me in red puree. "You don't know. You can't possibly!"
"But why won't you talk to me?"
She turned, picked up the lamp from the bedside table, and hurled it across the loft. I ducked, and it, too, exploded on the wall behind me. Maggs lay back down in bed, pulled the covers up and the pillow over her head, and began a muffled sob.
I picked what was left of the watermelon off the floor, placed it back on the plate, and laid it on the bed. I stood there for a minute, watching her shoulders shake. One heel was sticking out from underneath the blankets, so I covered it.
I tried to make sense of it but couldn't. Maybe it was the hurt talking. I pulled a pair of socks from the dresser, set them on the bedside table, and walked out, pulling the door shut behind me.
I HUNG AROUND THE HOUSE UNTIL LUNCH, BUT Maggs never showed, so I went for a drive. I pulled around the house and almost ran into the front end of Amos's truck.
Amanda was at the wheel. She rolled down the window. "She in?"
I thumbed over my shoulder at the loft. "Yeah, but I don't think she wants to see anyone right now."
Amanda nodded. "Maybe I'll try anyway." She tilted her head and chewed on her lip, sizing me up. "How're you doing?"
I shrugged.
"You sure?" She was getting more like Amos every day.
I turned toward the barn and said, "Make sure she knows it's you. Otherwise, get ready to duck."
I meandered along back roads until I found myself weaving in a rather straight line to Jake's car lot. The closer I got, the faster I drove. I turned into the lot going a little too fast, hit the brakes, and slid to a dusty stop in front of his office. When I looked at my hands, my knuckles were white.
Jake walked out, holding the last bite of a hot dog. Both mustard and ketchup streaked across his white shirt and blue plaid tie. He shoved in the last bite and wiped his mouth with his tie.
"Well, hey, Dylan. Looks like you've grown to like the family minivan."
I hopped out and looked across the lot. My heart sank. I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked again. "Hey, Jake."
He pointed at the van. "How's she running?" He seemed to ask for both my sake and for his.
"Oh, fine, fine. No problems."
He rubbed his hands together and looked relieved. "Good, good. Well, what can I do for you?"
Jake was one of the unlucky follicle-challenged guys who had started losing his hair in high school. He was now combing one of his sideburns clear over to the other ear.
"I was just in the neighborhood and thought maybe I'd stop by and see if I left some old sunglasses in my truck. They're not worth much, but. . ."
He laughed. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I'll check the drawer in the office, but we searched that thing pretty good before we sold it. I don't think-"
"What?"
Jake stepped backward. "Yeah, we searched under the seats, in the glove box, everywhere. We do that with all the cars before we sell them."
That was the second time he'd said that.
"You sold it?"
Jake looked at me and tilted his head. "Well, yeah. Ummm, see, a fellow I never seen come in here, offered me cash, and drove out five minutes later. It was like he was looking for that exact truck, 'cause when he got in it, he just knew."
I leaned against the van and whispered, "You sold my truck?"
Jake pulled the three-by-five-inch card from his shirt pocket and said, "Well, if you're in the market."
"No." I waved my hand. "No thanks. I just thought ... since I was driving by. . ."
His wife opened the door and shaded her eyes against the sun, and two kids pressed their noses against the glass.
"Hey, Dylan, you want some lunch? I just made some spaghetti."
The kids' fingers were covered in spaghetti sauce, as was the window.
I stepped forward. "No, ma'am. Thank you. I won't be a minute; thanks anyway."
Jake stepped forward and spoke softly. "Dylan, I'm real sorry. It's just that-" He pointed behind him. "This guy offered me-"
I shook my head and patted him on the shoulder. "No, Jake, it's not ... I'm sorry. You did right."
"I know how you loved that truck. I was surprised when you wanted to trade it."
"Well, we're trying to adopt, and-"
"I can keep an eye out."
I stepped into the van. "Thanks. That'd be just fine." I cranked the engine and shifted the lever down into drive. "Thanks again."
Jake held an imaginary phone to his ear and called above the sound of crunching gravel. "If I see anything, I'll give you a holler."
I waved out the window and drove slowly toward Digger.
A MILE OUT OF JAKE'S DRIVEWAY, SOMETHING thumped the underside of the hood, and then the air conditioner turned from cold to hot. I checked the rearview mirror and saw bits and pieces of my shredded compressor belt strewn across the road. I rolled down the windows, felt the heat blast my face, and missed my truck.
Bryce's place was immaculate and empty. The only signs of life were five crows that had lit atop the center screen and squawked at me when I emerged from the tree line. I walked through the trailer, across the deck, and back into the woods where the obstacle course had been extended. Somebody had brought in some heavy machinery and extended the run section down into the soggy lowlands. The wet, grassy ground ran beneath the oaks and around the bamboo for almost a mile before it encountered the edge of the swamp, which fluctuated with the rain.
By the time I reached the swamp, sweat trickled from every pore in my body, sticking my shirt to me like a vacuum seal. When I reached the edge of the water, I didn't feel like going back, so I sat up on a hickory stump and tried to exhale my
anger. That's when I saw the rope.
It was new black nylon, looped around a tree and tied in a hitching knot much like someone would use to tie up a horse. One pull on the free end and it would pull itself loose. The rope led me around the tree and about six feet away to a fourteen-foot johnboat. It floated empty, dry, well used, and complete with one hand-oiled oar. I looked off into the water and saw that as recently as today, someone had paddled through the pollen. The trail had yet to erase itself in the water.
I pulled the rope, pushed off, and dipped the oar in the water, following the cracks in the pollen. They weren't too hard to follow, and neither was the small canal that frequent use had created between the trees. Nighttime would be another story, but between fresh scars on the trees and places that were only wide enough for the boat, the path was hard to miss in the daylight. A mile passed, then another, and finally another.
Three hours later, I tried to find the sun and realized I had made a big mistake. I was about to spend the night in the swamp. If I'd had any sense at all, I'd have looped myself to a tree, lain down in the bottom of that boat, pulled my shirt over my head to protect myself from mosquitoes, and tried to get some sleep. Problem was, I wasn't feeling very sensible.
I poled another hour into the darkness until I could scarcely see twenty feet in front of my face. I set down the oar, coasted across the black water, and checked Papa's watch, which I think told me it was after eight, and only then did I smell the smoke.
Trying not to bang the side of the boat, I poled and paddled closer. Finally I sat down in the back and inched toward a cluster of trees. High above me, maybe thirty feet in the air, I saw a single flame, flickering like a kerosene lantern. It shone through what looked like slats in a tree fort, except this fort was about the size of our bedroom at the house. The timbers supporting it were rough-cut beams that stretched across the cypress trees shooting up out of the swamp.
The light from the lantern shone down through the hole in the floor and illuminated a rope ladder. I tied up the boat, stepped quietly onto the ladder, and pulled myself up. Some thirty-five feet later, I poked my head through the trapdoor and looked around. What I saw amazed me.