For emphasis she dipped her head to each side. Right. And left. Judging me.
She tossed the stalk of grass away.
Oh, I guess I could. Talk to her. If she would give back LaRose.
Peter glanced at the ground, disguising his hope.
It’s been four days. I get it, said Nola. I really do.
I never said.
But I get it.
Peter nodded, encouraged.
I mean, it’s wrong, but I get it. She’s holding him hostage because she wants my attention. She wants me to be like, Oh, Emmaline, how are you, how is your project, your big deal, your this, your that, your girls that Maggie likes so much? How generous you are, Emmaline, what a big-time traditional person to give your son away to a white man and almost white sister who is just so pitiful, so stark raving. So like her mother that Marn who had the snakes. People never forget around here. And they will never forget this either. It will be Emmaline Iron the good strong whaddyacallit, Ogema-ikwe. The woman who forever stuck by that big load Landreaux and even straightened him out so he could, so he could. . I’m just saying I would kill him for you. I see your face when you’re chopping wood. I’d kill him for you if it wasn’t for LaRose. So their damn unbelievable plan worked its wonder because now I’m better.
Peter questioned that now, but said nothing.
And nobody’s going to kill the big freak. He’s too fucking tall.
He’s only six three, murmured Peter. I’m six two.
I hope our son doesn’t get that tall. I hope LaRose doesn’t turn into a killer hulk.
It’s been a while now, said Peter.
Yeah, the years have gone by, haven’t they, Nola said. Her top lip lifted in the mad little sneer that sometimes jolted a shiver of lust in Peter.
C’mere, he said.
Why? She ripped another piece of grass out and stuck it between her lips. Maggie was over at the Irons’ house, as usual. They were alone.
Peter took the stick of grass from her mouth and lightly struck her cheek with it. She was still. He searched into her face. Kissed her until she kissed him back. She nodded at the house. He picked her up and carried her to the barn.
Not there, she said.
He carried her in anyway. They passed the old halters on hooks, the junked refrigerator, the green chair, the empty stalls. He threw bales down in the last one, a canvas tarp over the bales. There was that good smell of an old barn where animals had eaten, shat, breathed, an old clean barn full of hay and sun. He untied and removed her paint-streaked worn-out running shoes, peeled down her tight jeans, slipped each foot from the creased-up ankles. He knelt before the bale, lay her back, crooked her legs.
She looked over his shoulder. The crossbeam black oak. The rope gone. Gone. Nola flung her arms straight over her head. Her breasts tipped up.
He placed her feet on each side of his chest, placed his hands under her hips, pulled her onto him, rocked into her. And then they both went back and farther back, to the beginning, where there was nothing else, no bad things happened, where there was no child to grieve, no loss, no danger, where a few wasps hovered over but did not land on Peter’s ass, and the sun shafts lighted up with falling ever falling dust.
And why couldn’t she just see the peace and glory in it anyway? Why did she have to think of all the dead and one fine day herself among them, sifting through bright air? She wouldn’t do it. The rope was gone! How? Don’t ask. No, no, of course. Not now. LaRose told her how much he needed her. Maggie watched over her. She could feel it. She had a new life. Still, she had to think about it sometimes, a little, it wasn’t wrong, was it? Just to fall endlessly and rise forever on soft currents of warm air stirred by bodies of the living. There was nothing wrong with giving over to the melty swoon of it, the null. There was nothing wrong with having more in common with the dust than with her husband, with Peter, was there?
I thought I’d call, said Nola on the phone. Just because it’s a rainy day. Just wondering how LaRose is. .
Then she heard LaRose laughing in the background. One of the girls had maybe answered. It wasn’t Emmaline. Nola’s voice wouldn’t come out of her throat. She set the phone down and passed her hand over her eyes.
Are you okay?
Maggie came into the kitchen. Mom, you are staring at the phone. Was there a phone call?
Maggie still had the stone LaRose had pressed into her hand when he left. It was on her bedside table. She didn’t want it there, or anywhere. She had total responsibility for Nola, and she was weary.
No call.
Nola hugged Maggie. She was hugging her too hard and she knew it.
Honey, she said, LaRose is being kept against his will.
Maggie just hugged her mother harder. I mean, what to say?
Akk, said Nola. You’re getting strong.
Maggie laughed engagingly. Well, you too. You were squeezing me!
They won’t let him come back to me. He’s my only son. Am I too crazy, Maggie? Is there something wrong with me? Is that why? I love him so much. There’s nothing else in my life.
Nothing else. Well. Maggie turned herself off. She spoke in a cool, careful voice.
Dad loves you. I love you. Mom. You have us.
Nola squinted and peered forward as if Maggie were standing at the end of a long tunnel. Maybe at the end there was LaRose or someone else, because for a moment she did not recognize her daughter. She put her hand on Maggie’s face in a gentle way that creeped Maggie out, but Maggie did not move. She stayed in control.
You know what you need? Maggie kept her voice low and normal. It’s kinda cool and rainy. You need some hot chocolate.
I need to speak to Emmaline.
First the hot chocolate, with whipped cream.
Nola nodded thoughtfully. We don’t have cream.
Well then, marshmallows.
LaRose likes marshmallows, said Nola.
So do I, said Maggie.
Okay, said Nola.
Pouring the heated cocoa milk over the marshmallows, Maggie heard her mother press the buttons on the telephone, then hang up again. Nola came into the kitchen and sat down with Maggie.
It’s really hot, don’t. .
But Nola had already gulped. Her eyes widened as the scalding cocoa passed across the roof of her mouth and continued down, a blistering streak. Maggie jumped up, poured cold milk in a glass. Nola took a drink of cold and sighed. Then she closed her eyes and put her hand over her mouth.
Maggie’s teeth clenched her words back. She didn’t say that she was sorry, but she was sorry. She was sorry that she couldn’t do the right thing. Sorry that she couldn’t do what her mother needed done. Sorry she couldn’t fix her. Sorry, sometimes, that she had come across her mother in the barn. Sorry she had saved her. Sorry sorry sorry that she thought that. Sorry she was bad. Sorry she wasn’t grateful every moment for her mother’s life. Sorry that LaRose was her mother’s favorite, although he was Maggie’s too. Sorry for thinking how sorry she was and for wasting her time with all this feeling sorry. Before what happened with her mother, Maggie had never been sorry. How she wished she could be that way again.
Maggie went to find Snow and Josette. It was after school for them. Hers would start Monday. She, at least, could go back and forth and see them and see LaRose. The girls were outside. LaRose had gone to town with Emmaline, they said. She should help them with this thing they were doing. The grass, or weed base of the yard, was torn and gouged. It was hard and trampled. The girls had set up a ragged old volleyball net. Maggie helped them spray-paint orange boundaries on the dirt and mashed weeds. The court was done. While they talked, they bumped the ball back and forth. Maggie had only played in gym. Josette taught her how to bump, showed her how to set. Snow spiked. They practiced serves.