Burn Our Bodies Down(75)

What I can do, what I have to do, is end this for them. For me, too. And I think of the lighter I found in my nightstand. Of every day in that Calhoun apartment, a candle held between me and Mom.

Keep a fire burning. A fire is what saves you—that’s what she always said. She tried and tried to tell me.

This time I’m finally listening.





twenty-eight





fairhaven is sleeping when I get there. The front porch is dark, the upstairs curtains all closed.

I’m careful to stay quiet as I step up onto the porch and sneak through the open door, into the entryway. A radio somewhere upstairs, playing an old folk song. Like it’s just a quiet evening in the middle of nowhere.

In the kitchen, the light is on. Gram must be in there, having her dinner. Is that what you do when you think your granddaughter and your neighbors are all dead?

I keep on. Upstairs, to get the lighter. The photograph of Mom and Katherine is still in my pocket, and I rest my fingers against it as I climb. She’s here with me. They both are.

In my room I pause for a moment. Look down at the Bible, the one I thought was Katherine’s. There is more of Mom in there. I’m sure of it. But it’s not something she chose to share with me. I leave it where it is, pull the nightstand away from the wall so I can open the drawer, and grab the lighter.

Now what? Mom set the grove on fire, but she must have known it wasn’t over. Must have known someone else would have to take care of it, have to find the roots and rip them out.

That’s my job now, and Gram’s how I do it. I’d be happy to never see her again, but she’s got the information I need. And what can she do to me now? Every shot she’s fired, every swing of the shovel, all when nobody was looking. Well. Look me in the eye, Gram, and see how far you get.

I go downstairs. Not trying to be quiet anymore. Through the entryway. Into the kitchen doorway. A light is on over the stove, and a dish of casserole is warming in the oven. There’s a glass of half-drunk orange juice on the table. And a huddled figure. Gram.

I knew she would be here. Still. I freeze.

She straightens, a wash of yellow light sweeping over her face, and stares at me in the doorway. “Margot,” she says. Low and gravelly. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

I could laugh. Instead I slowly lean against the doorframe, the smell of the casserole setting a growl in my stomach. “Life’s full of surprises, I guess.”

For a moment we just look at each other—the only Nielsens to weather the storm. The only ones strong enough.

“Your head,” she says suddenly, nodding to me. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course it does,” I say. I’m too tired to do anything but stand here, fresh blood leaking into my hair. “You hit me with a shovel.”

Gram snorts. “Not hard enough.”

She meant to kill me. Like she killed the Millers. How can this be the woman who did that? Both of us still in our party dresses, both of us bloodstained. And here she is. Drinking orange juice.

She takes another breath, like she’s about to say something else, but then she just shrugs.

“No, come on,” I say. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m just surprised you came here,” she says. “If I were you, if I’d survived, I’d have started running.”

I’ve had a lot of strange conversations, I think, but this is up there. “I had things to take care of.” I am tired of understanding only just enough to get by.

I fish the picture Mom left for me out of my pocket and cross to the kitchen table. I unfold it there, between us. Katherine in her shorts and T-shirt, Mom in her dress with her face scratched out. Gram’s eyes go soft, and she traces the photo with a careful finger, lingering on Katherine.

“Look how young,” she says, almost like I’m not here.

“What happened to them?” I say. Enough of being careful. Enough of trying to get it just right. “What did you do?”

Gram doesn’t take her eyes off the photograph. But she starts talking. “I inherited Fairhaven when I was twenty-one.”

That’s hardly an answer. I force myself not to interrupt.

“We were doing well then. All that land east of Phalene was planted. Those storefronts in town were all rented.” She sits back, pushes the photograph toward me, her eyes averted like she can’t bear to look at it anymore. “But I was young, and my parents were gone. I made some poor decisions, the way anyone in my place would.”

Anyone. Somehow I don’t think anyone would end up where she’s brought us.

“And?” I say, when she stays quiet for too long.

A blink, and a shake of her head before she looks up at me. “And. I can’t remember exactly, so you’ll forgive me if I get my dates wrong. I think it would have been ’eighty-one.”

“When what?”

“It was a bad year for the harvest. The drought kept us from getting much, and what we did grow got hit with insects.” She scrubs her hands across her face, and I can see her shoulders trembling. “It’s been a long time since I picked through all this. I’m sorry.”

I don’t care. “That doesn’t explain—”

“I know.” She’s sharp for a moment, before it drifts away. “We lost a lot that year. Had to lay off a bunch of people. But it was one harvest. And we had plenty to fall back on.”