The Light Pirate(36)
Sometimes they go to one of Phyllis’s plots and gather data. Other days, they stay at the blue house and work in the garden, or cook, or do various projects around the property: building a new ramp for the henhouse, fixing a broken window box filled with herbs, climbing up on the roof to check the solar panels. Phyllis teaches her to use tools, to measure wood, to plant seeds, to purify water. When it rains, they read together. And Wanda loves every second of it. Survivalism—a term she doesn’t even know yet—comes naturally to her.
Today, they walk through the tangled wilderness behind Phyllis’s house. One of the chickens has gone missing. Phyllis lets them range free in the woods during the day and for the most part they don’t wander too far, but occasionally some of the more intrepid souls lose their way. Bluebell is one of these wanderers, a snow-white hen, just a few brownish-red speckles across her back and wings. She has been Wanda’s favorite since she started helping Phyllis gather eggs. By now, tracking Bluebell to whatever grub-studded log she’s pecking at is a frequent pastime.
The two of them walk softly, careful to leave the undergrowth the same as they found it. Above, the foliage is thick; only the smallest slivers of sky shine through to dapple the ground. The soil is wet but firm. They gather mushrooms as they go, and Phyllis instructs Wanda on the different varieties they find. “What’s the mushroom rule again?”
“If you aren’t sure, go home poor,” Wanda recites.
“That’s right.” Phyllis smiles at her.
The sunlight that slips in through the treetops sends sloping rays of yellow through the shadow. It will start getting dark soon. They go slowly, their eyes sharp on the tangle of growth all around them, and occasionally Phyllis shakes a baggie of sunflower seeds she’s brought, calling “Here, chick chick chick,” in case Bluebell is near. When Phyllis sees something notable that Wanda does not, they play I Spy until Wanda finds it, too.
“I spy, with my little eye…something that begins with ‘F,’” Phyllis says.
“A fern?” Phyllis shakes her head no. “Is it a plant?” Phyllis shakes her head again. “Animal?”
“It is.”
“Is it…oh, it’s the frog!” Wanda finally finds it, resting on a fallen log, almost invisible against the dull mosses.
“Do you know what kind?”
“Um…tree frog.”
“Not quite.”
“Oh wait, we were just looking at it, weren’t we.” She racks her brain. Phyllis quizzed her on the amphibian section of a field guide days before. Reading with Phyllis is so pleasant that she’s not yet aware that this, too, is learning. “Southern chorus frog?”
“A-plus.”
They keep walking, playing I Spy and calling out for the lost chicken, until gradually it begins to seem like maybe there is no chicken here for them to find. That maybe Bluebell has left them for good. Wanda doesn’t want it to be true, so they keep looking.
They do find her, eventually. Wanda sees the puff of feathers first. “There!” she squeals, darting forward. “Chick chick chick!” Phyllis reaches out and catches her by the collar of her T-shirt before she can get too far.
“Easy does it,” she says. “I don’t think our girl is—I don’t think she’s still with us.” Phyllis’s eye has already caught the pink stains, the eerie motionlessness beneath the fluttering feathers. Wanda understands and begins to cry, unable to stop herself. She would like to take this brutality in stride, to show Phyllis that she isn’t afraid of blood, but she can’t. This chicken has a name. Wanda has eaten her eggs, chased her through the woods, held her. There is a necessary tension between knowing how nature works in theory and witnessing it. Phyllis pulls her close, not wanting her to see more than she already has. “It’s okay, she had a good life.”
“How do you know?” Wanda presses her snotty face into Phyllis’s chest, unbothered by the wet spots she’ll leave behind.
“I guess I don’t. But I like to think she did. She was free to roam and she had a safe place to sleep. That’s all most of us can ask for.” They walk back, arms bound together. There is no more I Spy, no more mushroom gathering. By the time they get to the house, Wanda has worked through her tears. When Kirby comes to collect her, he asks what they did today and Wanda’s face is grave. “We lost a chicken,” she says. “But she had a good life.”
Chapter 37
Lucas waits until everyone else has gone to bed to work on his college applications in the living room. It’s late and he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. The sofa cushions sink to accommodate him and he has to keep reminding his body that there is still more to do today. The TV is on low, but he isn’t watching it. The ambient sound is soothing—it’s a rerun of an old half-hour comedy show that aired when he was little. The studio audience’s laughter swells and recedes, washing over him like a benevolent tide.
He tells himself these applications aren’t a secret, but they are. The idea of being accepted seems far-fetched, and this way, when the rejection letters start arriving in the mailbox, he won’t have to admit it to anyone. So he keeps his efforts to himself. Still, there are things he needs—supplementary materials—and the task of hunting those down, asking for them, is excruciating. When he asked Brenda for a letter of recommendation she just stared at him.