Stiltsville: A Novel - By Susanna Daniel Page 0,59

and we sat in chairs in front of the fireplace with our sticks out. “It’s OK if it burns a little,” Marse told Margo. “Sometimes that’s the best part.” Marse told stories about her awkward years. Once, she’d told a friend she liked a boy, and that friend had spread it all around school. Once she’d gotten her period while wearing white pants, and had to walk home in the middle of the day to change. The episodes hadn’t been particularly mortifying, but I think the stories made Margo feel better.

One night I woke to Dennis’s hand on my shoulder, his soft voice saying my name. He and Margo stood beside the bed in sweaters and blue jeans. “We made coffee,” said Margo.

The windows were black. “What’s going on?” I said.

Her voice was excited. “Dad has a surprise for us.”

I dressed and poured coffee into a thermos, then mixed hot chocolate for Margo and put muffins into a paper bag. We loaded into the front seat of the car, with Margo in the middle. It was two o’clock in the morning. Dennis headed north on the highway and drove for an hour, then took the Okefenokee exit and headed east. Margo rested her head on his shoulder. Orange groves stuttered by on both sides, dusty with moonlight. Every half mile or so, a bright light flashed through the trees. Dennis pulled onto the shoulder of the road and turned off the engine. The headlights died. “Listen,” he said. I heard the flutter of citrus bugs and the croak of cicadas, wind in the thick black groves. Then there was a popping sound in the distance.

“What was that?” I said.

Dennis stepped out of the car and crossed the road. “Come on,” he said, then vanished down a dark seam between the trees.

The air in the grove smelled of ripe and rotten fruit. Fallen oranges pocked the ground and tree branches scattered the moonlight. Dennis’s figure ahead of us was shadowy and nebulous. Another muted pop sounded, then another. The noises resembled shots from miniature guns. Margo and I hustled to keep up, but Dennis moved fast; I tracked the sound of his movement. My pulse quickened. It was a school night—was my husband nuts?

“Turn left,” called Dennis. He was at least twenty yards off. We crossed into the next row of trees and a light appeared ahead. “Still with me?” he said. His voice and the light came from the same place.

“This is freaky, Dad,” called Margo. She sounded happy.

As we neared the light, I saw that it came from a flood lamp attached to a picker nestled in the high branches of a tree. In the basket of the picker was a man holding a bucket of oranges in one hand. Dennis had taken off his sweater and held it in front of him.

“I forgot to bring a bag,” said Dennis as we caught up. In the scope of the lamplight it looked like daytime. The man above us wore a red plaid jacket and heavy leather gloves. Dennis called up to him. “Got a few to spare?”

“Who’s catching?” called the man in the picker.

My arms rose, palms cupped. The man tossed an orange and I caught it, then placed it in Dennis’s sweater. I worried briefly about stretching the fabric, but then the man threw another orange, then another. When we’d collected half a dozen, Dennis knotted the sweater sleeves and slung the bundle over one shoulder. I took off my own sweater and Margo stepped up. “Here,” she called. I watched her in the grainy light, the lines and angles of her. She took a little hop every time she reached for a falling orange. Her hair swung. Her expression shifted from intent to ecstatic. The load in my arms grew heavy. From deeper in the grove, another shot rang out. “What is that?” I asked Dennis.

“Had enough?” said the man in the picker.

“Thank you kindly,” called Dennis, and the man waved. To Margo, Dennis said, “That sound is the fruit—it’s bursting.”

“The oranges are breaking?” she said.

“They have to,” said Dennis. “It’s too cold for them.”

We walked a little, shivering in cold air, and Dennis explained that the man in the picker was spraying the oranges with water. The water would freeze on the peels and the reaction would release the tiniest germ of heat, enough to keep some of the fruit alive. Dennis led us back to the road, and on the way I listened for bursting