Reckoning Page 0,6
We were safe for the moment, so I had to get my head together and start doing right.
Still, I stayed there for a couple minutes while the Subaru idled and the headlights glared at Gran’s house, my face turned awkwardly so I could bury my nose in Graves’s neck. I was all torqued around like a pretzel, but I didn’t care. He smelled safe and he held me, and he kept repeating it.
“It’s okay, Dru. It’s gonna be okay. I promise. I’m sorry, everything’s gonna be fine. You’ll see.”
He said it like he was thinking he was the responsible one. And it felt so good I just let him do it. For a little while.
CHAPTER THREE
The key was still under the north side of that granite boulder, the one Gran poured milk over every new moon. The walls were still solid, thank God. The place smelled mildewy, and Gran would’ve got on me to clean every damn corner before turning in.
First things first, though. I hiked out to the corner of the meadow with a flashlight and found the connection box; when I flipped the switch, the tiny light came on, a sweet green flash. I could’ve sobbed with relief. Gran didn’t believe in “payin’ for the fool ’lectricity,” and this tapline had been here for decades. It was a pure miracle it was still working. If it hadn’t been, well, I’d brought a can or two of gas for the genny, but that wouldn’t take us far.
I hiked back to the house and found Graves and Ash taking the dustcovers off of stuff. They were shaking them off the front porch, too, which meant Graves was thinking. “Nice place,” he said over his shoulder as he passed me with an armful of canvas sheeting, his torn coat flapping around his knees. His eyes gleamed green in the dimness; the Coleman lamp I’d set on the kitchen table was feeble to say the least. “Good vibes.”
“Bang!” Ash nodded enthusiastically, bounding after him, pale bare feet slapping the polished floorboards. I found the moldering wooden-and-cardboard box of lightbulbs on its familiar shelf, right where Dad’d left it. Screwed the first one into the hanging cord over the kitchen table, and voila! The pleased exclamations from the boys made me feel like Edison himself.
The next step was priming the pump in the kitchen with a bottle of distilled water. When I worked the handle it made a gawdawful screeching, but I’d thought to bring some WD-40 and that made it just groan and shower rust flakes. After a few more pumps, though, things eased out. I worked it until a gush of rust-colored water came out, kept on until it turned clear and cold. Mineral-smelling well water, and plenty of it.
“Thank you, sonny Jesus,” I muttered. It was just what Gran would’ve said. “God willing and the well ain’t dry.”
Next thing—a fire in the potbellied iron stove. I worked the damper, hoped the chimney wasn’t blocked—fortunately there was a bit of a breeze, and I could feel the air moving past my fingertips. The stove was cleaned out, a neat fire laid among spiderwebs, so I just had to grab the matches and light her up. The draw was fine, and in a little bit I had a merry crackling blaze. Night would get cold around here even in spring, and all we had were sleeping bags. I wasn’t sure if moths would’ve gotten into Gran’s quilts too.
I’d solve that problem when I hit it, but even moth-eaten quilts would be better than none.
The boys had finished carrying everything in from the Subaru by then, and Ash let out a little cry of joy and wandered up to the stove, stretching his hands out like the fire was his personal friend.
The plates and skillets were dusty, but I just rinsed them off. Gran would’ve had my hide, but by this time I was yawning and working through mental mud. I locked the front door, told the boys to arrange the sleeping bags upstairs, and put together something easy—bacon, pancakes from mix, eggs. I could’ve made this in my sleep, and I pretty much did. When the boys tromped downstairs I was already coaxing the balky old electric stovetop and thanking God that I didn’t have to cook on the potbelly. I can do it, sure, but it’s no fun.
“More food?” Graves stretched, yawning hugely. Ash galumphed over to the stove and crouched, staring in through the grate at the fire’s orange and