“There’s a famous line from a poem about the ocean,” Mother had finally said to end the discussion. “‘Water water every where, but not a drop to drink.’”
Lynn had broken the globe afterward, smashing its false promises to bits on the chopping block with her hatchet. The tears that had fallen while she worked were as salty as the ocean, but she had sucked them greedily off her lips.
The canning was done by the evening, and Mother had emerged from converting the outbuilding into a smokehouse to help her carry the hot glass jars down into the pantry. They had fresh corn over the fire and the kernels burst juicily in Lynn’s mouth as she crunched down on them, relishing even the feel of the bits that stuck in her teeth.
That night, Lynn tried on the steel-toed boots. They fit well, and she giggled when Mother dropped the biggest encyclopedia (M) on her foot to illustrate what a good choice it had been to go ahead and take them. She tried not to let on how bothered she was at feeling the outlines of the dead boy’s feet inside the boots.
“You chop your hand off and the shock’ll kill you before you can make it back to the house.”
“I know, Mother.”
“If that chain saw gets away from you, it’ll take your leg down to the bone.”
“Yes, Mother.” Lynn hefted the ax into the back of the truck.
Mother glanced nervously at the steering wheel as Lynn climbed into the cab. “Stay in sight of the house.”
“I will.”
“I’ll keep my eye on you as much as possible,” Mother said, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. “But I can’t be always watching.”
That finally caught Lynn’s attention. “Smoke to the south?”
“Again, yes,” Mother answered, shifting her eyes in that direction as she spoke, nervously scanning the skyline for any hint of other people. “This morning, while you slept.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Don’t know. You have a handgun, too?”
Lynn nodded.
“Just remember to squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it. And go to the west, not south. Stay—”
“Stay in sight, right. I know. Mother, it’ll be okay.”
“Right.” Mother gave Lynn a long look before she stepped away from the truck. “Okay then. Go.”
Mother had taught Lynn how to drive as soon as her feet could reach the pedals, but it had been years since she’d been behind a wheel. Gravel sprayed when she tapped on the gas, and Lynn tried to reassure Mother with a smile and a wave as she pulled away. Even from the road she could see the concern stamped on her features, but there was no help for it. They needed heat. They needed wood.
Lynn surveyed the countryside as she drove, making sure to keep the house in sight of the rearview mirror while dodging the huge potholes that pockmarked the road. She spotted two or three downed trees that looked as if they’d fallen years ago. A strong wind a week earlier had knocked most of the grass down so that Lynn could see woods in the back acres of the fields, untilled even during Mother’s time.
The ride back to the woods was bumpy, the shocks in the truck having given out long ago. Lynn smacked her head on the ceiling of the cab, but it was exhilarating. The smell of the crushed grass under her tires, the two tracks following her in the rearview mirror, even the panicked grasshoppers that accidentally jumped through the window were a cause for amusement, a break from the norm.
She parked parallel with the woods, putting the truck bed near a huge, cracked trunk of a maple. Lynn got out of the cab and looked toward home, barely visible on the horizon. She waved, not knowing if Mother was watching her at that moment or not, but it felt better to pretend she was. She grabbed the ax and headed toward the tree.
She recognized the warning shot for what it was the second it sliced through the mud at her feet. Lynn instantly froze and put her arms into the air as far as the weight of the ax allowed. The crack of the shot faded away into the distance, but no one called out to her. Slowly she lowered her arms and studied the woods. The shooter was undercover there, and she was in no position to return fire. There was a handgun tucked into her belt, but her hands were full and she was in the open.
She was near enough to the fallen tree now to see fresh cuts in the trunk and bright piles of fresh sawdust strewn around. Lynn turned back toward the truck and walked slowly, very aware of what her back would look like in the crosshairs of a rifle. Whoever it was, they didn’t mean her harm. The courtesy of a warning shot was more than most people extended these days, and the fact that she’d left the field with her truck said a lot.
The thought of returning to Mother with nothing after having to beg to be allowed to leave in the first place made Lynn’s cheeks burn brightly as she drove home. She slammed her palm against the steering wheel, borrowing the new phrase she’d learned from Mother the night the men from the south had come.
“Son of a bitch!”