Then their mother, Mrs. Dawes, came to the door and yelled at them to leave me alone and soon I was back on my feet, the spell broken.
“You late,” she said to me. No hello, just that. This woman has so much work to keep up with. She can’t waste any of her energy on extra words.
Anyhow, I introduced myself to her but she’d already been told my name. Her family will get a few dollars a week for having me stay with them. I felt shy, but Mrs. Dawes was even shyer. I’m not sure how happy she is about having me here. Not only does she have these four little girls but she has two older boys who work with her husband in the fields. I’m just another mouth to feed. She showed me where I’ll be sleeping: I’ll share a twin bed with two of the little girls in a room where all six of the children usually sleep, but while I’m here, the older boys, eleven and twelve, will sleep in the living room. I apologized for putting them out, but she said, “What you’re doin’s important.” It was the first positive thing she said to me, and I was touched.
Then she showed me the outhouse and the outside pump for water and the oil lamps they use at night! Can you imagine? I thought of all that we grew up with, you and me. Our pretty houses with our big bedrooms and hot water and electricity. I feel so bad for this family and others like them, though Greg said pity won’t move us forward. I know I’m going to have to get tougher to deal with this.
I’m writing this letter sitting on the porch steps while Mr. Dawes falls asleep in the rickety old rocker next to the rickety old dog. He didn’t say a word to me at dinner, but he didn’t say a word to anyone. He was bone-tired, I could tell. He might even be sick. To say this family has a hard life is putting it mildly. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Dawes is registered to vote and I couldn’t bring myself to talk to them about it, at least not yet. I feel so intrusive and so WHITE and so rich, at least compared to them. Not being able to vote is part of what keeps them living in these terrible conditions, but I don’t feel like I have a right to say anything to them about it. I have to learn how to do this work. It’s so important.
After I wrote that last sentence, the kids came onto the porch from the yard where they were chasing lightning bugs. They joined me on the steps while I taught them a freedom song. They were quick learners and soon we were all singing “I Love Everybody,” little GiGi cuddled in my arms while the six-year-old, Gail, stood behind me, braiding my hair. I almost started to cry, sitting there with them, their faces so happy and their voices so joyous. In a few more years, I worry that they’ll be worn down by life like their older brothers and their parents.
I miss you and Garner—and Reed—and home and the easy life, but I know I’m where I’m meant to be right now. You can write to me at the return address on the envelope. That’s our headquarters.
Love, Ellie
Chapter 19
KAYLA
2010
I head back toward Round Hill after work, worrying that my father might forget to pick up Rainie since her preschool is closing half an hour early today. I picture my little girl waiting alone and scared in the schoolyard. I catastrophize a lot these days.
Ever since Jackson’s death, I see the world as freakish, ready to attack. At a stoplight, I call my father. He’s in the car and I hear Rainie chattering to him in the background. I’m embarrassed to let him know that I doubted him.
“Just calling to say hi,” I say cheerfully. “I’ll see you two later. Light’s changed. Love you!”
That is the confusing up-and-down spirit I’m in as I turn onto Shadow Ridge Lane. I notice that Ellie’s car is gone from the Hockleys’ driveway, and something draws my eye toward the rear of the house as I pass. Smoke? Probably just something cooking on their grill. But Ellie is out. Would Buddy be able to grill something? And then I see a flame shoot skyward from the corner of the screened back porch and I slam on my brakes. I turn off my car right there in the middle of all the construction vans and fly out of it, calling to the nearest workers.
“Fire!” I shout, pointing, and two of them race after me as I run toward the Hockleys’ driveway. By the time we reach the backyard, the side of the porch is in flames, the screens a fluorescent red as they curl out of their frames. I can see that Buddy Hockley is inside, struggling to open the porch door. He collapses against it and I try to pull it open, but the door appears to be locked. I kick at the screen with all my might, once, twice. The third time the screen gives. My eyes burn, but I’m able to reach through the broken screen and fumble around for the lock, finally finding it, giving it a turn. The door opens, and Buddy staggers out of the building, collapsing on top of me on the ragged lawn.
I hear the sizzle of water against the flames. One of the construction workers managed to find a hose. The two of them shout in Spanish, and water is everywhere. I’m soaked and trapped beneath a very large, very ill man, but all I feel is relief at seeing that fire die. In the distance, I hear sirens, already growing close, the benefit of living in a small town.
“Mr. Hockley?” I say. “Mr. Buddy?” He struggles to roll off me, hacking and wheezing.
“Sorry,” he says. The one word seems to take a lot of effort.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Is your mother all right?” I wonder if I should go into the house to find her.
Buddy rolls onto his back on the wet lawn. “I turned … it off,” he says. The four words seem to exhaust him. Another coughing attack. “It won’t explode.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, sitting up. “What won’t explode?”
“The oxygen concentrator,” he says. I try to see inside the porch from where I’m sitting, my eyes burning from the smoke and my wet hair stuck to my cheeks. One of the construction workers has gone inside and is spraying the interior of the porch down with the hose. I can’t see more than vague shapes.
Mr. Hockley is trying to sit up and I help him. Then I notice that the long sleeve of his plaid shirt is blackened as well as wet, and that beneath it, the skin of his arm is red and swollen. I also see a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket.
“Were you smoking while you were using oxygen?” I ask, incredulous.
“The tube was … I tossed it away from me. It wasn’t near me, but I guess…”
“Oh my God,” I say, my hand on his shoulder. “You’re so lucky you weren’t killed.”
One of the construction workers squats down next to us. “He okay?” He nods toward Buddy.
“He has a burn on his arm.” I point to Buddy’s arm. I don’t want to touch the blackened fabric. I don’t want to make his injury worse.
“Help come.” The young man points toward the street and I nod.
“Thank you so much for your quick thinking. You and your friend.” I nod to the other man, who now stands near us, the hose still in his hand, his fingers off the nozzle. “Thank you for finding the hose.”
I don’t think they understand all of what I’ve said, but they understand “thank you,” and they nod.
The man with the hose takes a few steps toward us, reaches into Buddy’s pocket, pulls out the pack of cigarettes, and slips them in the pocket of his T-shirt. He grins down at Buddy. “No good for you,” he says. “I save you from them.”