“The early signs—the off water, the smell, dead plants, sick pets—those went on for months while you said we were imagining things. Then you said there was no proof. Then you said you had the water tested and it was perfectly safe. And then people started getting sick, and you still wouldn’t listen.”
“So what happened?”
“We went to the town council. We went to the press. We went up to the capital and talked to our representatives. We wrote letters to the governor. You know. The things you do.”
“And it worked? They closed the plant?”
“No. The river turned green.”
“Like algae?”
“Not that kind of green. Not a green found in nature. Green like green neon, like green Easter egg dye, like St. Patrick’s Day souvenirs. It glowed.”
“Wow. That’s…” He considers it and settles finally on “terrible.”
“No, actually, that was a good thing, the one good thing, because finally, finally, everyone saw. People came and saw and listened. People paid attention to what Belsum was doing and how it was killing us. Reporters came and government officials and scientists and activists and experts, and since people were finally watching, they closed the plant.”
“And then what?” He can’t wait to hear what happened next, like I’m telling him the plot of a movie he’s not allowed to see.
“Belsum moved on and the government moved on. The scientists and activists and environmentalists moved on. The journalists moved on. But Bourne did not move on. Bourne stayed right where it was.”
His eyes look like they’re shivering. Can eyes shiver? It’s too much all at once. What would I have him say to all this? He can’t think of anything. Neither can I.
“Let’s walk some more.” I stand up.
“What?” He startles, looks up at me like he’s forgotten who I am, where he is, what we’re doing here.
“It’s okay.” I make myself smile at him, at least a little. “It’s not your fault.” I remind myself that this is true.
He nods. A beat. Another. “Wait.”
I do.
“What do you mean it’s not my fault? Of course it’s not my fault. It’s not true. Mab! Tell me you know it’s not true.” He’s not quite yelling, but he’s close.
“It is true.” Sad. Petra would say “atrabilious.”
But he’s neither. He’s mad. “Bullshit. You’re crazy.” He peeks at me. “Are you crazy?” He’s genuinely asking now.
I laugh. “Nope, afraid not.”
He laughs too but not because he thinks it’s funny. In fairness, that’s not why I laughed either. “Everyone in this town is crazy. Your mother obviously is. Your sister. I get it now. There’s something wrong with everyone here.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you’re poisoned,” I agree.
“Stop saying that!”
“Your family. Poisoned. Us.”
“Look, my grandfather’s kind of … I don’t know … but he’s not, you know, the devil. He doesn’t go around poisoning towns and giving dogs cancer just so he can buy a sailboat. Or whatever.”
“Your grandfather owns a boat?”
“Three.”
“Wow.” Dry as week-old breadcrumbs.
“But that’s not the point.”
I disagree. “I’m pretty sure it is.”
“I mean yeah, he’s rich. There’s no law against being rich, you know. But he didn’t kill anyone or hurt anyone or poison anyone. Jesus, this isn’t Shakespeare. Where are you going?”
I am not going to stand here in the sodden woods being scolded by River Templeton, so I set off for home. He should follow me because there’s no cell reception out here, and I know my way only after sixteen years of practice. He could starve to death before he found his way out. He’d have to resort to drinking the groundwater, which I really wouldn’t recommend. He could rely on my goodwill to come back and fetch him before nightfall, but I wouldn’t recommend that either. He seems to intuit this and comes loping after me on his long boy legs.
“Hey, wait up. Hey!” He reaches out and grabs my sleeve, spinning me to a stop. “What the hell?”
“Get off me.”
“I’m not on you. I’m touching your sleeve.”
“Don’t touch my sleeve.”
“Why are you mad at me? I’m the one being accused of all sorts of insane shit no one would believe, no one obviously does believe.”
“Everyone I know believes it,” I say.
“Yeah, but no one outside this town, right?” One minute he’s appalled and offended. The next you can tell this is fun for him, sparring, arguing, twisting logic all around then ramming home his point. “That must be true. No one must believe you.”
“Not no one.” I sound pathetic.
“Because you said seventeen years ago.” He talks right over me. “If you had proof, everyone would know it by now.”
“The wheels of justice turn slowly,” Russell always says, my mother always repeats, and I echo now.
“Plus, now the plant’s reopening,” he reminds me.
“So?”
“So they wouldn’t risk doing it again. If they’re reopening the plant, they must know everything’s fine. They must know everything’s been fine all along.”
“Oh, I see now,” I say. “I get it too.”
“Get what?”
“Why you’re saying all this.”
“Because it’s obviously true? Because you besmirched my honor?”
“Because you’re just like your grandfather.” Besmirched his honor? Who is this kid? “Evil must run in your family.”
“And crazy must run in yours.”
“We might be crazy,” I admit, “but it’s not hereditary if you’ve been poisoned.”
His mouth is open, silent. His hands are open, disbelieving. But the rest of him is closed as a walnut, his face shut against all I’ve told him, all I am, all of us.
He doesn’t want to walk next to me. He doesn’t want to follow behind me. But he doesn’t know where he’s going. So he walks ten feet or so to my left through the trees, off the path that’s half natural, half worn by me over the years, his foot twice sinking up to his ankle in wet mud, his clothes snagging every other step on climbing thorns he’s walked through instead of around, rainwater spilling down the back of his hoodie every time his head brushes the overgrowth, snapping twigs and branches like what you can’t see in a horror movie, the monster that’s coming, invisibly but (Petra would say) inexorably through the trees to get you.
Two
Often when Mama says she wants me to help her, it is more accurate to say she wishes I would change my personality. She will say, “Monday, I need you to help me by being a little bit more flexible about food today,” or “Monday, I need you to help me by not fighting with your sister about whether it’s necessary for her to wash her hands before washing the dishes,” or “Monday, I need you to help me by not eating twelve bowls of Corn Pops just because you want to cut the box into postcards,” and if you reply, “It is more accurate to say you need me to help you by not eating twelve bowls of Corn Pops mostly because I want to cut the box into postcards but also because they are yellow,” she will point out that this also is not helping her.