Tin Lily (3 page)

You don’t keep sheep and cattle for pets. You keep sheep and cattle for killing. Mack-Hank and Darcy’s place, it’s a million times worse than the zoo.

When I look at the Langhorns and the way their eyes watch me without understanding, I think there’s more in me than silence. “Please find my aunt.”

The social worker flinches and Officer Archie nods.

“Why’s she sound like that?” Mack-Hank asks.

“Shock,” Officer Archie says.

I’m to go with Mack and Darcy—temporarily, Officer Archie says. Just until he can find Aunt Margie. I want to stay in the dog food house where we were happy for a little while, where Mom’s pictures are still on the walls, where Tiananmen Square still needs reading. But I can’t stay. I have no choice.

It’s my last few minutes at the hospital and I’m counting the words in a magazine article when Aunt Margie walks into my room. She’s wearing a pink T-shirt that says “Metallurgists Rock!” I think this is maybe meant to be funny—a pun or something. Margie’s small, smaller than me, pretty too, even with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. Her dark hair is short now—pixie cut. She looks nothing like Hank even though she’s his sister. Margie Hadden. She has a different last name because she got married and then divorced and then didn’t change it back.

“Lilybeans?” She gets to me, wraps her arms around me, pulls me against her. Her skin is warm from the early summer sun. “Oh god,” she says. “Oh god, how could this happen?”

I’m dead weight, but she holds me anyway. Margie’s stronger than she looks. I can’t breathe too well, but it’s okay. I don’t mind Margie squeezing me so hard I can’t talk. Her being here means I don’t have to go with Mack-Hank and Darcy after all. I stare over her shoulder and see Officer Archie standing in the doorway. He smiles, nods once, leaves. He’s proud he found my aunt.

“Are you okay, Lil?” she asks when she pulls back. Her eyes don’t leave mine. She’s trying to see where I’ve gone.

“I’m okay,” I say.

She brushes hair out of my face. Her fingers are rough and soft. “My brother did this? Hank, he did this?”

I don’t answer. Her eyes are cornflower blue like Mom’s, but flecked with gold too. The cornflower sends a sharp ache where my heart used to be. My focus: the gold.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Oh god.” Her voice hitches. I see the panic coming on and look at my lap, at the open magazine on my legs. I listen to the
whir, whir, whir
of the air conditioner, the buzzing florescent light overhead, the scrape and clang of the hallway.

“What happens now?” I ask when she’s quiet again.

Margie stares at me and her eyes are huge. The gold reflects, refracts, tells me what’s inside my aunt—fear.

“I don’t know exactly. The police officer outside told me it’ll take them awhile to finish up their investigation.”

To find Hank, she means, but doesn’t say.

“Okay. Can you stay?”

“Of course. And when everything’s finished, you’ll come to Seattle with me.”

“Are you sure?” Margie’s never had a kid. I’m not a handful or anything, but it’s big going from no kids to one.

“I promised your mother,” she says softly.

I know my face is a question. I know Margie sees that.

“Your mom asked me to take care of you if anything happened to her. It’s how I knew something had, sweetheart. Your mom and I check in every week and I couldn’t get a hold of her last night.”

I decide not to think about Mom’s cell phone playing her favorite song in its tinny way, only her recorded voice left to answer who’s calling. I focus on Margie’s words.
Your mom asked me to take care of you if…
“Did she know Hank would do this?”

“No, of course not,” Margie says. “No.” She shakes her head hard. She’s trying to convince us both. “She was talking about accidents, not this.”

“Okay.” Margie and me, we watch each other, and finally, I ask the question that’s pushing to get out. “Could we stay here? Me and you?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but no.” She looks around the hospital room, out the window, back to me. Her face is pinched. “I can’t move back here and I think it’s better if we go.”

I look out the window and don’t say anything.

“Your dad and I haven’t spoken since we were kids.” Her voice turns to a whisper. “I tried, but he refused. Tried for years. He couldn’t forgive me.” I don’t know what Margie means by this, but there’s no curiosity in me to ask. “Anyway, he doesn’t know where I live, if you're worried about that.” She waits for me to say something. I keep quiet. “Officer Newbold doesn’t think you’re in any danger.” She tugs on my chin so I have to look at her. “He believes this because Hank left you alive. Lily, if your dad tried to hurt you, it’s important you say so.”

“Because they’ll give us protection?”

Margie shakes her head. “No. I guess Hank left so much evidence behind it’s doubtful he’ll have a decent defense if the case goes to trial. Officer Newbold said they don’t put people in witness protection who won’t be needed as a witness.”

“Then why?”

“Because there are other ways to protect you. The Langhorn couple—”

“They kill sheep and cows there.”

Margie nods slowly. “I know, but their farm is remote and Hank would have no idea how to find you.”

“He didn’t try to hurt me, Aunt Margie. I promise. Please don’t make me go with the Langhorns.”

Margie wraps her arms around me again. “No, Lilybeans. I won’t. I promise.”

There are no words left in me to say how much I can’t go with Mack-Hank and Darcy. I think Margie, with her shaking and crying, understands. Not like Mom understood about the zoo, but close.

I’m not afraid of Hank coming for me. I’m not anything. Emptied out. Gone. My own version of a dried-up potato bug.

There’s lint on Margie’s shoulder—blue, a little white mixed in.

My focus: Margie’s blue and white lint.

They let Margie take me after a social worker says it’s okay. We go straight to a downtown hotel where she wants to stay. We share a room because Margie doesn’t want me out of her sight. She slides a plastic card into the key slot, opens the door and waits until I’m inside with my blue hospital bag full of too-small clothes from Offer Archie gathering them up at the dog food house. Too-small clothes that won’t do me any good in Seattle. I need Mom’s things—the sweater she knitted me, the rug, her pictures. Mostly I need Margie to answer a question.

“Why?”

Margie stops digging in her purse where she’s standing at a little desk crammed in a corner of the room. She turns slowly toward me. I see by her face this one word is enough. She understands.

“Did you know Grandpa Henry died Sunday morning?”

Sunday. The day Hank came with his gun.

“Hank said Grandpa Henry was dead.”

“When?”

I tell her with my eyes not to make me say.

“I see. Did he say anything about Grandpa’s will?”

“Only that there was nothing left.”

Margie paces the room, holding a tiny metal box in her hands and muttering to herself. She turns the box over and over like Hank did with the cat at the dog food house. I think she’s working out what to say or what not to say when she stops in front of me with her hands cupped around the box. I see flashes of silver between her fingers. “Your dad expected an inheritance from Grandpa Henry.”

“I know.”

I know because Hank went to work for Grandpa Henry’s company even though Mom said don’t, even though Grandpa Henry disowned Hank a long time ago because he wanted to paint and not install rain gutters. Even though Grandpa Henry was poison.

“Pure poison, Hank. Don
’
t do it. We
’
ll survive. We don
’
t need his money.”

Dad
’
s face is buried in his open hands, his shoulders slumped. “You think I want to, Rachel? He
’
s sick. He needs me.” Dad drops his hands and looks up at Mom. With his own deep pools, he begs her to understand. “One year. I bet he won
’
t even last that long. One year.”

“
You can
’
t predict that, Hank. The meanest cling to life and there
’
s no one meaner than your father. Don
’
t do this. He
’ll poison you. He’
ll poison us.”

Dad shakes his head. “
I won
’
t let him near you two. He
’
ll never come here.”

Mom turns away and now her shoulders are slumped. “He won
’
t need to. Have you forgotten how he treated you? And Margie? Your mother? He leaves no one untouched. Don
’
t do this.”

Dad gets up from his recliner and crosses to Mom. “
I won
’
t let him affect us. I promise. You know how much we need this. If I get back in his good graces, he
’
ll reverse the disownment and leave me the company. It
’
s worth a year, don
’
t you think?”

Mom leans into Dad, resting the back of her head against his shoulder. “No, it
’
s not worth it, but I think you
’
ve already made up your mind. One year. But if…” She turns and looks over Dad
’
s shoulder at me. I pretend to read, to not listen. “One year,” she says.

But it only took Grandpa Henry six months to wreck Hank and six months after that for Mom to say we were leaving and another year after that before Grandpa Henry finally died. One year into two, two years into nothing.

Margie’s mouth is moving. I hear bits and pieces as I try to catch up. “…inheritance from my parent’s estate… huge trust… left us out completely.”

I think about the unfussy house I visited with Hank once without Mom knowing—the front porch creaky, all sagging wood and U-shaped steps from so many years of tromping up and down, paint peeling in strips off the siding, the kitchen so old you could smell what was for dinner ten years before. I remember Grandpa Henry sick in bed, a nurse sitting at the kitchen table, her bags packed. Dad was always having to find new nurses for Grandpa Henry. He didn’t treat people too well. Never even talked to me while I was there. Not once.

“Grandpa Henry had an estate?”

Margie laughs. Not a good laugh—a twisted, angry laugh. “The old man had a lot of money and the company was worth a fortune.”

“He didn’t leave it to you and Hank?”

She shakes her head. “Not a cent. I think it may be why your dad did what he did, as much as you can name a reason. I had a call from Grandpa Henry’s lawyer before I left Seattle. Hank insisted on a reading of the will hours after Grandpa Henry died. I think he thought—”

“Wait.” I hold up my hand to stop her talking.

I take a minute to let her words sink in—the words about Hank coming because Grandpa Henry left him nothing, the words that tell me why. I hear a buzzing and bat at my ear. There’s nothing to bat. It feels like a bee’s climbed right inside my head and is knocking around in there like it’s confused or drunk. “Hank came with his gun because Grandpa Henry didn’t leave him any money?”

“I think so,” Margie says, but her voice is far away now.

“What did Grandpa Henry do with his money?”

Margie shakes her head. “That’s enough for now, kiddo. You’re pale as a ghost.” She puts one hand to my cheek. Does she feel me buzzing? All these bees under my skin, thrumming inside my head, filling me up with nothing.

I disappear for a little while. I go where it’s quiet.

“Lily?”

I blink hard and look around the hotel room, then back to Margie. “Yes?”

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere.”

There’s fear in Margie’s eyes. “I’ve been calling you. You checked out.”

I look at the clock sitting on the crammed-in-the-corner desk. I don’t know what time it was before, so it doesn’t help. “How long?”

“Oh, not long—a minute or two.”

“Did I fall asleep?”

Margie shakes her head and squeezes my hand. “No, kiddo. Your eyes were open.”

“Okay.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Just talking about Grandpa Henry’s money is all. And the bees.”

“Bees?”

“Like in a hive. I thought we had one in here.”

“You heard or saw them?”

“Heard. The buzzing was soft for a little while and then it got loud and then it was quiet.”

“All right. Do you hear them now?”

“No.”

We look at each other. Margie’s eyes tell me she’s scared of what happened. I don’t remember. I can’t help her not be afraid.

We’re sitting, not eating dinner at the hotel restaurant—grilled cheese for me, salmon for Margie. My bread is white, the cheese is yellow. The yellow reminds me of the daisies Mom used to bring home sometimes. Daisies sitting in a vase like there was no awful coming. Just sitting, sucking up water, waiting until the little life left in their stems and petals petered out. Daisies and melted cheese, both dead and waiting. My focus: the bread.

I think it’s been three days, maybe three weeks. I’m not sure.

“I need my books, Mom’s sweater, my rug,” I say.

Margie pulls out her cell phone, presses a few buttons and talks for a minute.

“Officer Archie says it’s okay. He’ll meet us there.”

“Okay.”

I reach inside my pocket. Empty. It’s where I keep my house key. I try to remember these aren’t my normal clothes. I try to remember this isn’t my normal life.

I check my pocket again.

*   *   *

We drive to the west side of Salt Lake City. The dog food factory is going, spewing white steam and thick stink into the sky. I sniff my new T-shirt. No dog food smell. It’ll be there by the time we leave.