and the ordinary tragedies of heartland America. This is the busiest time of the year for the Walshes. Pop, Karen, and her husband, Howie, seem to be out and about from the crack of dawn till sundown, while Mrs. Walsh—Grandma Shirley—shoulders the household chores and looks after the twin girls when they come home from school.
It would be lonely out here, all on my own. I’m glad I have neighbors, particularly as I zoom out of the picture of me on my porch: the cottage…the main house…the barns…the garages…the fields…the woods. So much of this region is still wooded, and the river winds like a snake away from the Blue Ridge Mountains through the woods toward the sea. No, not like a snake, more like a lizard, one with short legs and small toes. I imagine the lizard trying to make its way toward…someplace…dashing from rock to rock, from cover to cover, because there is an unnamed danger overhead. Gathering strength in the shelter of the stone, panting, then—with only a vague sense of opportunity to guide it—it dashes out and runs as fast as its little legs and tiny toes can carry it to the next shelter. Why can the lizard not stay where it is, and where is it rushing so frantically when there is danger overhead—
“Hey.”
“W-Wha—hey.” I fell asleep again. Must get that under control.
A slim teenager in torn army pants and a purple tank top has materialized, apparently out of nowhere, and she has the same expression of curiosity mingled with suspicion as the raccoon I came across yesterday morning when I went for a stroll in the woods. Her dark hair is cut short, but neither the boy hair nor the camouflage pants can disguise the fact that there is something waifish about her, something vulnerable and stubborn. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it, and since she doesn’t seem inclined to speak, I suppose I must.
“Are you one of the tomato pickers?”
Her eyebrows slam together and she shifts on her feet.
“I’m Jules. They didn’t tell you about me, did they? Karen’s daughter.”
She is right; they didn’t tell me about her. And I don’t blame myself for not having caught the resemblance, because if Karen is her mother, her father must be black.
“Hi, Jules, Karen’s daughter. I’m Anna. But I guess you knew that.”
She rolls her eyes, but it is in embarrassment about her own awkwardness.
“Yeah, I knew that. Doctor Anna Lieberman. You’re from New York. Yeah, I knew that too. Man, what wouldn’t I give—” She shifts her weight again and sighs.
“D’you want to come up for a moment? Let me get you a soda.” Yielding to the air of hopefulness that surrounds her like a cloud of smoke, I indicate the rickety bench on my porch. She grins and skips up the steps, and I mentally subtract a couple of years from her estimated age.
She is sitting on the bench with her feet pulled up to her chest, and it strikes me who else she reminds me of: myself when I was her age. I cut off my hair, too, shortly after my Bat Mitzvah. I would have cut it off before, but my Grandma got wind of the plan and was so horrified that I waited out my performance at the synagogue before I, as my mother put it, “mutilated” myself. Studying my haftarah got me hooked on biblical Hebrew and began a phase of deep immersion in Jewish history and Torah studies, much to the bewilderment—and sometimes irritation—of my almost completely secular parents. Nathan took to calling me “Anshel,” the male alter ego of Isaac Bashevis Singer’s Yentl, the girl who wanted to be a yeshiva student; and although I knew he meant to taunt me, I was proud of his acknowledgement of my commitment and academic prowess.
Whoa! Hold the projection, Lieberman.
“I guess you’re really bummed you had to come and live out here.” She considers her drink but doesn’t unlock her arms around her knees.
“Do you mean ‘out here in Ardrossan’ or ‘out here on the farm’? Neither, actually. I wanted to. But then I’m not your age. Fifteen?”
“Sixteen in December. Mistake, though. This place sucks. It’s all rednecks and girls who wear purity rings and give blowjobs to the All Stars behind the gym. Do girls do that in New York?”
She glares at me almost accusingly, and I realize that I have become a canvas of projection for her, too. My estimate of her