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Barbara gets up, takes a quick look around to make sure she’s alone, then pours her tea down the drain. Before going back to the table and resuming her seat, she takes a macaroon from the cookie jar.
Roddy laughs. “That is amusing.”
“But not surprising. I filled my tea ball from the top of the cannister, where it’s fresh. The English Breakfast at the bottom has been there for I don’t know how long. Seven years? Ten? That’s the stuff I used for her, and it must have been stronger than hell. You should have seen her face when she took the first sip! Ha-ha-ha, wonderful! Now wait. You’ll like this, too.”
She fast-forwards again. She and the girl discuss the poem at double speed, then Em goes to the cookie jar. The girl raises her cup… holds it in front of her mouth…
“There!” Em says. “You see what she did?”
“Waited for you to turn so you could see her finishing what you’d think was the whole cup. Clever girl.”
“Sneaky girl,” Em says admiringly.
“But why give her the old tea?”
She gives him her I don’t suffer dullards look, but this one is softened by love. “Curiosity, my dear, simple curiosity. You are curious about your various experiments in biology as applies to nutrition and aging; I’m curious about human nature. This is a resourceful girl, bright and pretty. And…” She taps his deeply lined brow. “She has a good brain. A talented brain.”
“You’re not suggesting putting her on the list, are you?”
“I’d have to find out a good deal of background before considering such a thing. Which is what this was made for.” She pats the computer. “But probably not. Still… in a pinch…”
She lets it dangle.
July 24, 2021
1
Both parking lots of the Kanonsionni Campground, the one for cars and the one for campers and RVs, are full, pandemic be damned. The campground itself looks jammed. Holly drives a quarter of a mile further up Old Route 17 and parks on the shoulder. She calls Lakeisha Stone, who says she’ll be waiting on the shady side of the campground store. Holly says she’s up the road a little way, give her five or ten minutes.
“I’m sorry about the parking,” Lakeisha says. “I think half the cars in the lot are ours. We’ve got a gang this year. Most of us work at the college, or went there.”
“I don’t mind,” Holly says. “I can use the walk.” This is true. She can’t seem to get the smell of her mother’s potpourri out of her nose… or maybe it’s her mind she can’t get it out of. She hopes the fresh air will flush it away. And maybe it will flush away nasty emotions she doesn’t want to admit to.
She keeps thinking about the first months after Bill died. What remained of her trust fund went into Finders Keepers over her mother’s howls of protest. She remembers praying for clients. She remembers shuffling bills like a blackjack player on speed, paying what had to be paid, putting off what could be put off even when the bills came with FINAL NOTICE stamped on them in red. Meanwhile, her mother bought jewelry.
Holly realizes she’s walking so fast that she’s almost jogging and makes herself stop. Just ahead looms the campground’s sign, a grinning Native American chief in a gaudy red, white, and blue headdress holding out what’s probably supposed to be a peace pipe. Holly wonders if the people who put it up realize how absurdly racist that is. Surely not. They probably think old Chief Smoke-Um Peace Pipe is a way to honor the Native Americans who once lived on Lake Upsala and who now live on a reservation miles from where they once hunted and fi—
“Quit it,” she whispers. She takes a moment to close her eyes and mutter a prayer. It’s the one most commonly associated with recovering alcoholics, but it’s good for lots of other things and lots of people. Including her.
“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”
Her mother is dead. The terrible days of looming insolvency are past. Finders Keepers is a paying concern. The present is for finding out what happened to Bonnie Rae Dahl.
Holly opens her eyes and starts walking again. She’s almost there.
2
Thanks to her work indexing those doorstop histories, Holly knows that Kanonsionni means “longhouse” in the old Iroquois tongue, and there is indeed a longhouse in the center of the campground. Half of it is a store and half of it seems to be for group gatherings. Right now the latter part is full of boys and girls singing “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” while the choir director (if that’s what he is) chords along on an electric guitar. It’s not Joan Baez, but their voices rising on the afternoon air are plenty sweet. A softball game is going on. A gang of men is throwing horseshoes; a clang shivers the hot summer air and one of them shouts, “A leaner, by God!” The lake is full of swimmers and splashers. People stream in and out of the store, munching munchies and drinking sodas. Many are wearing campground souvenir tee-shirts with Big Chief Smoke-Um Peace Pipe on the front. There are few masks in evidence. Although Holly is wearing hers, she feels a burst of happiness at the sight of all this exuberant, barefaced activity. America is coming back, Covid-ready or not. That worries her, but it also gives her Holly hope.
She walks around to the shady side of the longhouse and there’s Lakeisha Stone, sitting on the bench of a picnic table whose surface is covered with incised initials. She’s wearing a light green coverup over a dark green bikini. Holly thinks she’s Bonnie’s age, give or take a year, and she looks absolutely smashing—young and vital and sexy. Holly supposes Bonnie looked the same. It would be nice to believe she still does.
“Hello,” she says. “You’re Lakeisha, aren’t you? I’m Holly Gibney.”
“Keisha, please,” the young woman says. “I bought you a Snapple. It’s the kind with sugar. I hope that’s okay.”
“Wonderful,” Holly says. “That was very thoughtful.” She takes it, screws off the cap, and sits down beside Keisha. “May I be snoopy and ask if you’re vaccinated?”
“Double. Pfizer.”
