Now she looked up at Mrs. Collier and answered that she thought the rivers had been more important than the lakes, because the rivers could power mills and help people get around. The teacher nodded and proceeded to compare the Connecticut River, which flowed north-south along the Vermont-New Hampshire border, to the interstate highway that these days ran parallel to it. After that, the class might have moved on with the lesson in how geography affected development, but Hallie noticed that the boy beside her, a rail of a child with a mop of dark hair that curled in great, swooping tendrils, was drawing a picture of an airplane dropping like an arrow toward a lake. His name was Dwight. He was using a yellow Ticonderoga pencil and a sheet of three-hole loose-leaf paper, and coloring in the water as she watched. The pine trees along the shore and the plane already were in place. There was smoke coming from at least one of the aircraft’s two engines.
It surprised her that, despite all of their discussions of lakes throughout the week, someone hadn’t thought of her father sooner. She was relieved that Garnet sat at a different table, because she feared her sister would find the drawing far more upsetting. That was just how Garnet was wired. Whenever they talked of the plane crash, Garnet would wind up sad or scared or strangely distant. These were not the neurological seizures that looked to most of the world like trances-there she was, just staring at the same page in a book or at the same Web site on the computer or at something outside the window only she seemed to see-though at first Hallie and her mother had feared that they were. (Hallie recalled now how one time the previous autumn Garnet had spent so long on the window seat in her old bedroom in West Chester, her knees at her chest and her arms around her knees, her eyes open but not seeing, that Hallie had had to rush downstairs and bring their dad upstairs to her sister. See if he could snap her out of the seizure. He had. Sort of. The girl made eye contact with him and nodded that she was okay, they didn’t need to go to a doctor. But it was another ten minutes before she was off the window seat and back at the computer they shared.) Still, Garnet would retreat to someplace in her mind and sometimes not say a word for a minute or two. She would ignore everyone, her eyes morose. These were not the ten- or fifteen- or even twenty-minute trances that marked the seizures. But they were nonetheless worrisome. Consequently, Hallie tried not to bring up the plane crash-which, she guessed now, might explain why today’s classroom discussion of lakes hadn’t made her think of Flight 1611 until she noticed the drawing.
Abruptly Mrs. Collier was at her table, standing right between her and Dwight and exuding anger and pain. Fiercely she grabbed the piece of paper with the sketch of the plane from the tabletop and stared at it. Then she glowered at the boy and said, her voice only barely controlled, “Did you hear one single word I was saying? Or one single word your classmates were saying?”
The boy looked terrified. His hands were buried in his lap, and his head and shoulders had gone limp like wilting flowers. Hallie didn’t think he had meant anything by the drawing. He knew about her father-everyone knew about her father-but she didn’t believe that he had been trying to frighten her or tease her in some fashion. He was just a boy, and boys seemed to like drawing airplanes-and, sometimes, those planes seemed to crash.
“Uh-huh,” he murmured finally.
“Uh-huh, what?” Mrs. Collier pressed.
“I was listening.”
“What was the last thing I said?”
Hallie knew it was the comparison of the river to a highway, but it was painfully clear that Dwight had indeed been in his own world and hadn’t a clue. The duration of the silence grew excruciating as Mrs. Collier waited for an answer she was never going to get.
And that’s when it happened. Abruptly Garnet was on her feet, too, and she was crossing the classroom to their table and standing beside their teacher and Dwight. Reflexively Mrs. Collier started to pull the paper toward her chest, crinkling it into a ball, but Garnet was too fast for her. She had an edge of the drawing in her fingers and then the whole picture in her hands. Out of nowhere she revealed a red plastic cigarette lighter, and then she was igniting the wrinkled sheet, holding it so that in seconds the flames had climbed up the image and incinerated every bit of the pulp. The children were either gasping or eerily silent, and Mrs. Collier was demanding that Garnet put it out, put it out now.
But already it was out. The last black wisps floated to the tile floor as gently as snowflakes, and Garnet stepped on them with her clog. Then she handed Mrs. Collier the lighter and said, her voice sweeter than warm syrup, “If you want, I can go to the principal’s office. I know where it is.”
Hallie had never seen her sister do anything like this. Not ever. She presumed that, if either of them was going to pull a stunt like this, it would have been far more likely to have been her.
Later, when they were walking up their driveway where the school bus left them off each afternoon, Garnet finally told her sister where she had gotten the lighter. She said it was in the far back corner of the walk-in closet they shared in the hallway between their bedrooms and she’d found it the night before when she was trying to find places for all of her boots and shoes. She added, “I didn’t know it was a picture of Dad’s plane at first. I really didn’t. I just knew it was making Mrs. Collier unhappy. And I guess I just wanted to try out the lighter.” Given what the picture was, however, and how the adults all presumed Garnet knew that the image was Flight 1611 plummeting into Lake Champlain, neither the principal nor Mrs. Collier felt a serious inclination to discipline her. They simply told her that the school didn’t allow students such things as lighters, and then the principal tried to call Dad at home and Mom at her office. Hallie pointed out to Garnet how she’d received absolutely no punishment at all, and her sister nodded. “You and I can probably do just about anything we want and get away with it,” Hallie added, and it was only after she had spoken that she realized she was stating the obvious. Garnet, it seemed, had known this for months.
Y ou stand tall as you swing the ax hard into the door made of barnboard, your pants and sneakers positively black with coal, your hands and forearms streaked with sweat and muck. You convince yourself that the knobs and lines on the wood really look nothing like a face. Nothing at all. When you pause for breath you recall a historian you once heard speaking on the radio about the testosterone it must have taken to clear great swaths of New England of trees in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The forests that greeted the first Europeans were substantial, and the tools the men used to clear them were primitive. They swung axes for hours and hours a day.