Once Upon a River Page 0,67

order to see into the living room at close range, she pulled herself up into an old apple tree. She saw Joanna sitting in her chair sewing only a few feet away. She was wearing a blue print dress, and as always her hair was pulled back in a knot. Her shoulders looked a little more stooped, her face slightly more lined, her hands a bit more arthritic than a year and a half ago, but Cal, sitting beyond her, looked very different. He was gray-haired now, though he couldn’t have been much more than forty years old, and his face looked pinched and stern. His arms and shoulders were bigger than before, maybe from working wheelchair wheels and those crutches that lay on the floor beside him. His legs were straight out in front of him on a footstool, covered with a blanket. His gaze was trained on the TV. A sleeping figure that Margo took to be Junior lay on his back on the floor, his body impossibly long, his arms folded under his head, on which he wore headphones. Robert Murray, who must have been eleven years old by now, sat cross-legged on the couch and was watching TV intently. Toby and Tommy, aged seven, sat with their backs to her. What shocked Margo was the stillness of the room, apart from the movements of Joanna’s hands working needle and thread. So different from the lively old river paradise they had once all been a part of.

She leaned out of the tree, closer to the window, figuring she was well hidden by the foliage and darkness. She wished she could somehow get Junior’s attention. Then Joanna looked out the window. Her face was so sad that Margo had to swallow hard. She’d been naive to imagine that, after all they’d been through, the Murrays would have been the same family she’d known, full of fun, stories of their escapades, and plans for hunting trips. Margo wondered if Joanna ever worried about her. Joanna had plenty of other things to worry about, Billy, of course, and Cal especially. Margo understood the sadness and exhaustion in Joanna’s face. Margo had to shake that same sadness out of her joints in order to get up every morning and work up the energy to hunt for food to eat that day.

A white-bellied flying squirrel flashed above her—her grandpa had referred to them as sprites when he glimpsed them at night, the same as he’d sometimes called her. Margo was shifting her weight, and she slipped a little. She caught herself by grabbing a branch, and when she looked back into the room, Joanna was looking out at her. Margo slowly raised her hand to wave, but instead made a gesture of peace the Indian hunter from Michael’s book might have made when he was trying to hide his wolverine heart. Joanna glanced toward Cal and her sons. She laid aside her mending—it was Junior’s jacket with the pot leaf stitched on the back. Margo slid down the tree, followed Joanna from outside the house, climbed the wooden steps, and waited among the mosquitoes at the riverside kitchen door. She slid the Marlin off her shoulder and leaned it against the house where Joanna wouldn’t see it. Joanna opened the door and then took hold of the knob to steady herself.

“Margaret?” Joanna whispered. “Is that you?”

Margo nodded.

“What are you doing here?”

Margo took a breath, tried to speak, but nothing came out. Maybe Joanna was reading the pain in her face, because her tone softened.

“You look thin. And your hair. Your pretty hair. It’s . . .”

Margo reached up and touched her hair, brushed away some pine needles. She had not washed her hair since she’d left Michael’s three weeks ago.

“I need a shower,” she said.

“Oh, Sprite, it is you, isn’t it?” Joanna leaned toward Margo as though she wanted to hug her or inspect her, but then pulled back and glanced behind her at the door leading to the living room. “Oh, dear. Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. I was just in the woods. Looking for mushrooms.” Margo whispered because Joanna was whispering. She could smell the cinnamon bread Joanna must have made for the next day’s breakfast, and also some greasy meat.

“I thought you were with your mama, Sprite. You left us that note. Your uncle Cal was angry at you. He still is.”

“I know.” Hearing Joanna use her old nickname made her feel acutely all she’d lost.

“You stole his most