When it became too shallow to swim, we searched for a break in the rocks and a sandy spot to make the change. For the first time, Tallulah moved away from me, giving us both the room we needed. Forcing our bodies back into human shapes sucked big- time. As kids, we rarely left the water; the transformation usually left us puking in the sand. These days, the worst I got was the dry heaves.
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When the bones began to split, I arched my back and braced against the pain. Twisting in the sand, I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, then gasped with ragged breaths that burned my lungs. A minute later the last of the tremors rippled past my toes as I sputtered and coughed at the dry air.
Tallulah stood up looked down at me. She winked at my vulnerability, the inevitable result of being naked and unable to run. I rolled my eyes to watch the water run off her in little rivers that trickled down her arms and dripped off her middle fingers. The backs of her bare legs were red from the recent trauma.
After another minute my breathing fell into a rhythm, and I clawed my way onto shore, finding my legs and pushing myself to standing. My sisters sat on the beach, wearing the yellowed cotton rags they’d pulled from Maris’s canvas bag. The silver rings were already fading around their throats. Pavati tossed me a pair of tattered shorts as she fed driftwood into a small campfire. Maris had my sturgeon friend skewered on a spit.
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7
MOVING
T he next morning, I woke before the girls. For a few minutes I lay quiet and unmoving in the sand, my back pressed up against a boulder, my skin cool in the shadow of the oak trees, my brain trying to remember where I was. The previous day’s conversations trickled back into my consciousness. Maris turned over sleepily and mumbled something unintelligible. I got up, and she rolled into the empty spot I left in the sand. She murmured again, “He was supposed to come home.”
I kicked at the sand, dusting her legs. “I
did
come home.
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Get off it, Maris.” She groaned in response and curled into a ball.
The sun was just rising, and it cast pink beams of light on the spires and gingerbread details of Bayfield’s oldest buildings. I set my teeth in preparation for the job ahead of me. I knew what I needed to do. But as eager as I was to earn my freedom from Maris and the family, my first priority was going to have to be food— and lots of it. Even at this distance I could smell yeast and bacon grease wafting through the air from Bayfield’s breakfast joints.
I tossed my shorts in the bushes and wrote a note for my sisters in the sand:
On it.
Three long strides, and I splashed into the lake, diving into the sunlit path when I could no longer stand. I counted out the seconds in my head as the transformation took place. It was quicker than the night before but,
crap,
I had a lot of work to do on my timing.
A fishing boat passed overhead, and I took advantage of its hull for cover. Its shadow was wide and deep, and I was able to follow it all the way in to Bayfield. When it veered south along the shore, I swam under the pier and crawled up onto the jagged rocks. My breath came out in gray, frosty huffs, and I closed my eyes to the wisps of old spider webs that laced the underside of the pier. Twisting and writhing, I reopened the newest cut on my shoulder, which had barely begun to heal. The smell of cinnamon rolls was the only distraction from the pain.
When it was over, I crept up the bank— listening for voices— flung open the door of the Impala, and slid inside. My khakis and T-shirt were tucked under the seat, right where I
41
left them the night before. I wrestled them over my wet body and scrubbed my fingers across my head until my hair settled into a look of precise dishevelment. Meeting the Hancocks meant looking presentable, or in other words, two- legged, well groomed, and— most of all— benign.
I turned the key, and the Impala coughed and wheezed before agreeing to move. I bore a direct path to the Blue Moon Café and the strong smell of melted butter and coffee that wafted through the screen in its bright blue door. A motherly- looking woman appeared in the front window; she taped a Help Wanted sign to the glass. When she retreated, I stole inside and loaded my arms with day- old muffins from a basket on the marble countertop. Just as I turned, the woman came back.
Busted.
“Oho. And who do we have here?” She laid two white cardboard boxes on the counter and appraised me with an amused smile.
The name Hancock was written on the top box in black marker. I dropped my stolen goods back into the basket and said, “Sorry.”
She laughed and glanced at a clipboard hanging on the wall. There seemed to be some kind of to- do list with not much crossed off. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Sorry. I’m Mrs. Boyd.”
“Actually, it’s Calder White, ma’am, and I really am sorry.” I lowered my voice and locked my eyes on hers, staring into them, twisting my will into her mind, making my thoughts her own. I tried to come up with images that would make me seem trustworthy: me in one of her blue aprons, working behind the cash register.
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“I don’t have any money,” I said, “but it smelled so unbelievable in here I couldn’t resist.”
Her pupils dilated, and she chuckled warmly. “I just popped a slew of muffins out of the oven.” She rested her hand on the boxes. “I’m bringing them up to the old Hancock place.”
“You don’t say.”
“My husband Bill’s up there right now, moving in some of the heavy stuff. I was just about to head up there with the goodies. I’ll tell you what. Run these up to the Hancocks, and I’ll throw in a couple extra just for you.”
“Deal.”
“Let me write down the directions.” She picked up a pen and tore a sheet out of the receipt book.
“I got it.”
She looked up, her eyes still wide. “You know where you’re going?”
“Actually, I do.” I picked up the boxes and turned for the door. Too bad Maris hadn’t seen me in action. It might have bought me a nag- free night.
I’d downed two muffins before reaching the north end of town, pushing the speed limit as much as I dared. When I’d gone about a mile, I dropped the Impala down to a crawl and counted the clumps of birch trees . . . three, four, five . . . until the familiar driveway came into view. It was just as I remembered some forty years earlier, but more overgrown. Matted yellow weeds and leftover snow clung to the edge of the driveway. Potholes gaped in the tire tracks.
I rolled slowly over the natural speed bumps until I reached the Hancock house— two stories of weathered clapboard, with
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a peaked roof and a small, darkened porch that sagged in the middle. A square window was centered under the peak and above the porch. A dormer window on the right side of the house faced the lake. Plywood covered the first- floor windows. Shingles lay in the yard rather than over the black hole in the roof. Time had not been good to it.
Ahead of me, Hancock was laughing and slapping men on the back, throwing apologetic looks at his wife, who leaned on a cane. When it came to killing Jason Hancock, his wife looked like she might beat me to it.
I parked the car on the far shoulder, scraping the passenger side with the tree branches.
A parade of men, women, and a few kids carried boxes into the house and then returned empty- handed, only to grab another load and repeat the trip. Several of the people wore Northland College sweatshirts even though they were clearly past their college years. Colleagues? Was Hancock a professor? That gave me pause. I’d never considered him anything other than prey. Someone had already worked hard enough to shed his sweatshirt and leave it draped over the back of his tailgate. I snagged it up and pulled it quickly over my head, centering the logo over my chest.
The little blond girl stepped primly down the porch steps, avoiding a hazard I couldn’t see. Perhaps a loose board? She looked even younger than I remembered. What role could I play for her? Teacher? Hero? Maybe hero would work. I could lure her into the woods, where she’d get conveniently lost. After a failed search party, I could appear with her in my arms. That had to be worth
some
show of gratitude. Like a fishing trip out on the lake. How could Jason Hancock refuse me?
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Lily Hancock came out next, wearing the same black corduroy miniskirt from the day before, a rose- colored cardigan, and a yellow beret. I smirked at the thought of her little sister’s reaction to this getup. Lily stopped on the porch and laid her palm against the banister. She tested its strength, and it wobbled under her hand. Her eyes drifted up to the porch roof.
I strolled up the driveway toward the house, carrying the boxes of muffins. A cool breeze blew off the lake. Lily wiped her hands on her skirt and pulled her sweater low over her hips.
Still hasn’t confessed the tattoo,
I guessed. Sophie noticed me first and smiled. She ran up to greet me while Lily stood frozen on the steps. For a second I thought she might have recognized me from before.
“Are you here to help?” Sophie asked, her voice high and hopeful.
Out of my peripheral vision, I noticed Lily’s mouth hanging open while she watched my exchange with her younger sister. Another girl met Lily on the steps, and I listened to their conversation while having my own with Sophie.
“I’m delivering muffins,” I said, “but I’m happy to help.”
“Who is that, Gabrielle?”
asked Lily.
“Good. I’ll take ‘em inside. You can grab something out of the van,” said Sophie. She took the muffins and headed toward the house.
The girl next to Lily whispered,
“Never seen him before, but if that’s the kind of guy waiting for me at college, I can’t wait to get there. Check out his hair. And his arms. I bet he works out.”
“Okay, I’ll get to work,” I called after Sophie.
“You think he’s good- looking? I guess. But he didn’t get that tan around here,”
said Lily.
“I wonder where he’s from.”
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Jason Hancock appeared from the other side of the moving van. He looked up at Lily, then followed her gaze to me. My eyes locked with Hancock’s, and I clenched my teeth. I had to force my jaw to relax so I could speak.
“Hi,” I said with feigned enthusiasm. “Mrs. Boyd sent me up here with some breakfast for all the movers. She thought maybe I could lend a hand, too?” My voice faltered, and I cleared my throat to regain control. A second later Mrs. Hancock rounded the van, stepping cautiously on the uneven ground, leaning on a cane.
“Thanks so much,” Hancock said. “I’m Jason Hancock. This is my wife, Carolyn.”
Hancock reached out to shake my hand, but fortunately I’d already picked up a box. I didn’t think I could handle any physical contact. I was pushed to my limit as it was.
“Calder White,” I said.
“Good to meet you, Calder,” Mrs. Hancock said. “It’s so nice of you to help. God knows we need it.” And then she laughed, her voice light and lilting. I would have liked to shake
her
hand.
“Have you met our daughters?” Hancock asked. “Lily’s our oldest.” He waved toward the porch and Lily raised a tentative hand. “And Sophie just ran inside. This is my parents’ old place.”
I nodded and forced a smile.
“I guess I didn’t realize it was so run- down.” He put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and gave it an apologetic squeeze. “Carolyn’s right. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
I barely heard anything he said. My mind was speeding forward, trying to ignore Mrs. Hancock’s sympathetic tug
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on my heart and strategizing my best options for getting her husband onto the dock. But if I took Hancock down alone, without letting my sisters have their own share in his end, I’d pay for it. Still, it would only take a second to grab him . . . I needed to get my mind on something else. Maris wanted to drag this out.
“Do you fish?” I asked.
What the hell?
I groaned mentally; I was already slipping. It was no good being so close. I couldn’t think straight. The air stretched into a thin trickle of oxygen. Was my tongue always so thick?
Jason Hancock chuckled. “Nope. Not at all.”
I walked quickly toward the house and Hancock followed. He kicked at a pile of shingles, and they shattered like shale. When we passed Lily on the porch, I stole a sideways glance at her. The girl named Gabrielle rocked back and forth on her heels, clearly amused by something.
“But, of course, we do have a lot of fishing and hunting gear here at the house,” Hancock continued. We stepped through the doorway, and he gestured to an impressive- looking gun cabinet by the fireplace. “This was all my dad’s stuff. I’m more of a book guy. I’ll be teaching at Northland starting fall semester.”
I put my box down on the dining table and looked around— to the left, a small living room with green shag carpeting, knotty pine paneling, and a stone fireplace; to the right, a tiny kitchen featuring cracked linoleum and peeling wallpaper with images of sheaths of wheat. There appeared to be a bedroom beyond the living room. A narrow wooden staircase, open on one side, rose like a ladder out of the middle of the house.
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At the foot of the stairs, a few black- and- white photographs hung crookedly on the wall. I walked over, fixated on one face. I took the photograph off the nail and wiped away a thick layer of dust.
“My parents,” Jason Hancock said, clearing his throat. “They lived here when they were first married. I was just a baby.”
“Tom Hancock.”
“Right,” he said, surprised. “Did your grandparents know him?”
Before I could answer, the floorboards creaked and we both looked toward the door. Lily was there along with the other girl, who fidgeted with her shorts. Lily pushed a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. My eyes followed the long, pale line of her neck, now exposed.
“Hi,” she said, and then she bit her bottom lip. “I’m Lily Hancock.” The other girl jabbed Lily, hard, in the ribs. “Right. And this is Gabrielle Pettit.”
“Gabrielle’s dad is a carpenter and handyman. He’s going to help me fix the roof,” Hancock explained as he swiped a small tube across his chapped lips. Then he headed back to the van.
“Mrs. Boyd sent me up with muffins,” I said. “Thought I’d stay and see if you needed any help.”
“My brother’s out back,” said the Pettit girl. “He’s helping, too.”
“So, you live around here?” asked Lily.
“Yeah, sure, just over there.” I gestured vaguely and hoped she’d be satisfied with the ambiguous suggestion. Sophie Hancock came in behind Lily and smiled shyly at me. “So . . .