6

Jiminy

August 30 (Em’s diary)

Dad brought home a letter from Clear Springs Prison today. It said Jiminy got hurt in some fight and was in the infirmary a few days. Dad told Ma when he handed her the letter. Then he went right back out, off with Uncle Near in his sailing skiff. Ma read the letter, but not out loud, even though Gran and me were right there too. When she was finished, she folded it up and stuck it in her pocket without saying a thing, and then she fetched her bag of old clothes and started cutting up a pair of Jiminy’s jeans for patches for mine and Tammy’s. Cutting up his clothes! I know Dad can’t forgive Jiminy, but I don’t understand about Ma. Don’t she know that’s bad magic?

I’ve been setting out Sabelle Morning’s cup every night so it can catch the dawn light, for Jiminy, but that’s not good enough. I need to go see him.

Thinking about Jiminy makes me think of my pen pal, since she’s in prison too. Jiminy has to stay in prison for five years. I wonder how long Kaya has to stay in that house hanging over the Ruby Lake. If the government is pretending it’s an honor, then does that mean she won’t ever be able to leave?

And however long she’s stuck there, she can’t have no visitors, not unless they come riding in by helicopter. Somehow that makes me want to visit Jiminy even more. Nobody who’s able to have visitors should be left all alone.

September 3 (Em’s diary)

I woke up extra early this morning, thinking about Jiminy, and couldn’t fall back asleep. I checked on Sabelle Morning’s cup and asked the Seafather for good luck. I made me and Tammy lunches and convinced Tammy that we should go by the Oveys first, before stopping at the Tiptoes for Clara, instead of the other way round.

“Small Bill probably won’t even be up yet,” she grumbled. “He probably ain’t even coming.”

Small Bill does skip school a lot. Ma never lets me or Tammy skip, unless we’re sick, but the mothers and fathers who grew up in Mermaid’s Hands don’t fuss about going to school the way Ma does.

The water was not quite knee high as we waded over. We had our shoes tied together by their laces and slung around our necks so we didn’t have to try to fit them in our backpacks. Tammy was making hers bang together as she walked and singing something to herself.

“Look, it’s fairy-wing color,” I said, pointing out at the open bay. It was, too: all pink, tinged with gold, with sparkles on the top of each ripple and swell.

“I wish it would stick, but it never does,” Tammy murmured, sprinkling a few drops on her T-shirt. Of course they just made wet blotches.

“You looking for Small Bill?” It was Lindie Ovey, at the window of the Oveys’ kitchen. She’s between Small Bill and Jenya in age, but she always fishes and swims with her big sister and the other older kids.

“Is he up?” I asked.

“I’m here!” he said, sticking his head into the window next to Lindie. Then he clambered onto the sill and slipped down onto the veranda.

“There’s a door, you know!” Lindie said.

“But this is faster!” he called back, splashing into the water.

“Don’t you have any books or papers to bring to school today?” Tammy asked him, her hands on her hips and her voice scoldy, a mini-version of Ma. “And what about a lunch? You better get it, or you’ll be hungry.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Small Bill, grinning. He’s such a good sport. He always goes along with Tammy’s bossing. He’d make a good big brother.

“Here you go, showoff,” said Lindie, dropping Small Bill his backpack out the window. He caught it.

“You want to walk with us too?” I asked Lindie, afraid that maybe this one time she might say yes, but she shook her head.

“Nuh-uh, y’all are gonna get there way too early,” she said. “I’m waiting for Daisy and Fairchance.”

“Why did you come so early?” Small Bill asked me, after we’d put a little distance between us and his house.

I told him about the letter from the prison. His grin faded.

“I took the envelope it came in,” I said. “It has the address of the prison on it.” I pulled it out of my pocket to show him. “After school I’m going to the library and find out how to get there. You can do it on the computer. Tell it where you are and where you want to go, and it’ll give you directions. Want to come?”

Small Bill doesn’t know about all the stuff you can do in the library. I don’t think he’s been there since we went with our school class to get library cards, back when we were Tammy’s age, but he said yes. Just dry-land luck that it was the mean librarian at the checkout desk today instead of the nice one. She frowned when me and him and Tammy came in and frowned even harder when I signed up for the computer.

“You sure you know how to use that?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. The other librarian showed me,” I said.

“Game sites and chat sites are blocked, you know,” she said.

“I’m going to make a map,” I said.

She followed us to the computer work station and stood by, watching. There was no way I was going to take out that prison envelope with her hovering there, so I typed in Aunt Brenda’s address instead, and the address of our school, and a blue line appeared on the screen—a route between those two places. Still she wouldn’t leave. I tried to think of another dry-land place I could ask the computer to find. While I was still thinking, the phone rang at the checkout desk, and the librarian had to go answer it—though she kept looking at us over her shoulder, like she was afraid we might break the computer if she didn’t keep her eye on us.

I put in the prison’s address, and a long, long line appeared, from Sandy Neck west and north, across two state lines and over to where the prison is. I copied the route onto the back of the letter, along with the name of each town the blue line went through. The librarian made us show her our backpacks before she let us leave. It’s a good thing our pens and pencils didn’t match the library’s ones, or she’d probably of said we swiped them.

“I hate that place,” said Small Bill.

“The other librarian’s different,” I said. “She helped me find Kaya’s country on a map, and she showed me how to find pictures of it.”

Outside, the hot, damp air pressed against our arms and legs as close as the sea does, when we’re swimming. Up here, we’re air fish. I swung my arms a little, to make a bit of breeze.

“Can we get a Coke?” Tammy asked as we passed the gas station, where a guy was unloading a pallet of Coke from a giant Coca-Cola trailer truck.

I told her I didn’t have no money, but she opened up her butterfly change purse to show me two dollar bills.

“Aunt Brenda gave me money, last time we visited,” she said.

Aunt Brenda gave her the change purse too, last Christmas. Aunt Brenda and Uncle Lew always fuss over Tammy, what with her being sickly and also looking a lot like Ma’s side of the family. Me and Jiminy take after Dad and Gran, but Tammy’s practically as pale as Mr. Winterhull.

“Well okay, then, if that’s what you want to spend it on,” I said. “Want me to buy it for you?”

She shook her head.

“I want to do it myself!” And she marched into the gas station store like Sabelle Morning off to face the revenue agents.

The man who’s normally behind the counter was out front chatting with the Coke delivery man. First they talked about car racing, and then about fixing up cars, and then about road conditions, and where the delivery guy was going next.

“Creole Creek,” he said, “then Antioch, ‘n after that—”

“Hey, ain’t those places on your map?” asked Small Bill. “He must be taking the same road.”

He was right. Those were the names of the first two towns on my list.

The delivery guy wheeled his handcart into the gas station store, leaving the half-empty pallet beside the open rear of the trailer. I peeked in. Along one wall were pallets loaded with crates of Coke, and along the other were stacks of empty pallets and crates. It would be so easy to hide in there.

I could feel my heartbeat speeding up. Calm down, heart. I took a couple of deep breaths.

Sabelle Morning would do it. She’d do it in an instant, to rescue one of her crew. She’s practically made of bravery. And Vaillant too. His name means brave, and there wasn’t a monster on sea or land he wouldn’t face down. And what about Kaya. She don’t even have a choice about being brave. She has to be, whether she likes it or not.

I can be brave too. I clenched my teeth, to keep the bravery in, and climbed into the trailer.

“Em! What’re you doing?” Small Bill shot a glance at the door of the gas station store, but the delivery man was still inside.

“I’m gonna ride to see Jiminy. I’ll go as far as Antioch and get out there, and then I’ll … I’ll find another ride.” I was trying to shove one of the loaded pallets a little ways away from the wall of the trailer, to make a hiding spot, but it was too heavy.

“Help me?”

Small Bill grimaced, but he followed me into the trailer. “You don’t want to do this,” Small Bill said, even as he helped me with my pushing. “You’ll end up stranded in deep dry land.

“I ain’t afraid of dry land,” I said, rubbing the palms of my hands from my eyebrows to my scalp to push the sweat away from my eyes.

The door of the gas station store clanged shut after Tammy, who emerged holding a can of Coke.

“Tammy!” I whisper-shouted.

Her eyes got wide when she realized where I was calling from, and she shook her head, but I beckoned hard, and Small Bill leaned out of the end of the truck to give her a hand up.

“I don’t like it in here,” she said in a quavering voice, eyes on the stacked pallets and dark walls of the trailer. “Why are we in here?”

“I’m going to see Jiminy. You heard what Dad said yesterday. He got beat up. He needs us. Want to come?”

“No! And I don’t want you to go either. You’ll get in trouble! Please can we get down and go home?” She was silhouetted against the bright square of afternoon light at the open end of the trailer, standing between the full pallets on our side and the empty ones on the far wall, when somebody called.

“Tammy! What’re you doing in there? Where’s your sister? Come out of there!”

It was Cody, in the Mermaid’s Hands truck—Mr. Tiptoe’s truck—that we all use. He’d just pulled in at the pumps.

Of course it would be right then that the delivery man came out, and of course he saw Tammy.

“What the? Get out of there!”

His language got a lot more colorful as he strode over.

Me and Small Bill slid out from behind the pallet, and the three of us climbed down. The delivery man was pointing his finger at us, jab jab, like a stick, and saying things like theft and vandalism and police, and I felt panic rising up in me, because it looked like Tammy was right, and my bright idea was going to get us all in big trouble. Big unfair trouble! We weren’t stealing nothing or breaking nothing!

“Whoa, slow down,” Cody said, shutting the door of Mr. Tiptoe’s truck and walking over as loose and easy as could be, his whole body saying, everything’s fine, everything’s fine, there’s no problem here. The delivery man looked like he was getting ready to give Cody an earful, but Cody spoke first—to Tammy.

“You making mischief again?” he said, smiling, like the two of them had a secret joke. Tammy looked confused. She never makes mischief. Her lips were trembling: I could tell she was about to say No it wasn’t me, but—Cody’s smile. It was begging a return smile from her.

“I apologize for all this, sir,” said Cody, “but I’m sure my little neighbor here just got some wild idea in her head about exploring, and then the bigger two went along with it. Nobody can say no to that face!”

To Tammy he said, “You planning a stowaway adventure? Think how worried your parents would be! And Mr. Coca-Cola here would’ve had a heart attack next time he opened up the doors of his truck.”

Tammy looked at him in wonder. She’s used to being delicate Tammy, and Tammy-who-needs-to-rest, and remember-to-wait-for-Tammy, and sometimes Tammy-the-mermaid, but Cody was giving her a whole different kind of story. Small Bill’s mouth was quirking upward at the thought of Tammy the mastermind. Even the delivery man was smiling a little.

That Cody’s pretty smart. Once he got Mr. Coca-Cola looking at tiny, cute Tammy, with her good hair and big eyes and freckles, how could the man stay mad? Cody talked to him a few more minutes, asking him about where he was from and if he had any kids, and got him telling stories about his four-year-old son, and by the end him and Cody were practically best buddies.

Mr. Coca-Cola closed up the back of the trailer, and me and Small Bill and Tammy piled into the Mermaid’s Hands truck, which Cody drove to the Sandy Neck town parking lot, where it stays. Cody had been on a shopping run for Mermaid’s Hands, buying T-shirts for everyone. Mrs. Tiptoe and Mrs. Ovey will sort out who needs what and pass them round. They usually dye the ones for us kids, tan and pink, from Spanish moss and poke berries. It’s like we’re all part of the same club, the Mermaid’s Hands club.

“It’s handy I ran into you,” he said. “You can help me carry them back.” So we each took an armful of T-shirts.

“Why in the world were you up in that truck?” Cody asked presently, as we squelched across the mudflats. He frowned at me and Small Bill. “You two should know better.” Then, frowning deeper, “You weren’t trying to run away, were you?”

“Run away to dry land? Not ever!” Small Bill said, practically shuddering.

“I was thinking more of Em,” he said.

What the heck? Why me? Like I would run away from Mermaid’s Hands!

Is it because of Ma? Does he see her keeping to herself and clinging to some dry-land ways and maybe think I’m that way too? I’m the one who knows when the fish are coming, I wanted to shout. Just ask Snowy.

“No!” I said. “I was—”

I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t say I was trying to visit Jiminy, because what if Jiminy’s the reason he thinks I might want to run away? Some people think bad things are catching. Your brother steals stuff, so maybe you might could be a runaway.

“—just … wanting an adventure, I guess?” I finished. It was a weak story. “I wanted to see … I wanted …”

But I couldn’t say about wanting to be brave either.

“Didn’t you ever just want to see something new?” I asked. “It don’t have to be because you want to run away. You know what I mean? Like you coming to Mermaid’s Hands.”

“If I grew up in Mermaid’s Hands, I’d never look elsewhere,” he said with feeling. “You’ve got a thousand lifetimes of worlds to explore right here.” He nodded out at the horizon and the fringed edges of Foul Point over on our left. There was a whir of wings out that way as a handful of pelicans took flight.

Small Bill nodded emphatically. “That’s the truth.”

I ground my heels into the mud in irritation. I’m pretty sure I love Mermaid’s Hands as much as y’all do, even if I ain’t testifying to it, I thought. But at least Small Bill didn’t tell about Jiminy. That’s something.

“There’s some good things on dry land too,” Tammy remarked. I could practically see her remembering all our cousins’ old toys in Aunt Brenda’s house.

Visiting dry-land relatives. Maybe Cody thinks that makes us not quite real seachildren, too. Most folks who get sung into Mermaid’s Hands leave dry land behind them. In fact, I can’t think of any other kid in Mermaid’s Hands who spends much time on dry land, outside of school. Maybe we really aren’t quite real seachildren. The thought made me want to punch somebody.

But then Cody surprised me.

“You bet there are good things on dry land. Ice cream’s pretty good. And Coke’s pretty good,” said Cody. “Can I have a sip?”

Tammy grinned and nodded. She stayed grinning as he took a swig from the can, appreciated it loudly and dramatically, and gave it back to her.

“Delicious! Yep, ice cream and Coke. That’s two good things that dry land has.”

Tammy giggled, and I smiled a little too. That Cody! He really does know just the right thing to say.

September 4 (Em’s diary)

I am in big trouble. I don’t know what I’m going to do next, so I might as well just sit here and write this until they kick me out.

This morning, Gran was getting ready to go out with Auntie Chicoree and Granny Ikaho to cut cordgrass for repairing the thatch part of the roof.

“Everybody’s up on their roofs these days,” I said. “Clara said her ma and dad replaced all their thatch, and yesterday I saw Mr. Winterhull hammering down nails on their kitchen roof.”

“Next storm’s brewing out in the Caribbean,” Gran said. “What letter are we up to now? H? This one’s a dawdler, so it’s getting big. Seems likely to come our way, so we’re making sure we’re snug.”

“Can I help?”

“Course you can, once you get back from school. I’m not climbing up there.”

“Can I stay home and help?”

Gran put down the twine she was rolling and fixed me with a raised-eyebrow look.

“Whyever would you ask to do that? You like school, don’t you? Getting essays in books and things?”

She meant my essay in the Kids Speak book. Ma and Dad and Gran still think it’s a big deal.

“Everybody in class got their essay in that book,” I muttered.

“What’s that now?”

“You’d let Wade come along, if you were at Auntie Chicoree’s, and Wade asked,” I said, louder. Tropical Storm Unfair was gaining strength inside me.

“Auntie Chicoree’s not as fussy about school as your mama is.”

“School ain’t optional, contrary to what some folks seem to think,” Ma said, handing me and Tammy our lunches. “And not everything that’s useful to know can be learned on the water.”

Hurricane Unfair, with sustained winds of 110 miles a hour, just about knocked me down at that point. Thanks to Ma, someone like Cody takes me for a runaway, and thanks to Ma, I don’t even get the chance any other seachild would get to prove my loyalty to Mermaid’s Hands.

“Make sure you scrape those,” Ma added as I stacked Tammy’s unfinished bowl of fried jumblefish and pickleweed in mine. And there above the bait bin, peeking out from among the bills which Ma keeps propped between the thyme and the jar of pennies on the windowsill, was the letter from the prison. I slid it free and read it.

“Ma, it says multiple fractures! It says clavicle, scapula, and ribs. What bones are clavicle and scapula? And it says lacerations and loss of blood. It sounds real bad! We should go see him!”

“That wasn’t addressed to you; you shouldn’t read other people’s mail!” Ma said, snatching the letter out of my hand.

“But are we going to go see him?”

Ma squinched her forehead between her two hands.

“Sometime, maybe, Em. Not today or tomorrow; we have other things to worry about just now. You get yourself on to school.”

I imagined Jiminy laid up in a hospital bed with broken bones. But just for a few days, the letter said. What then, back in a cell? Still hurting? And nothing but silence from the folks that are supposed to care about him.

Before the morning announcements came on at school, I went up to Ms. Tennant’s desk, because I know she keeps a dictionary on it, next to the attendance book, and I wanted to find out which bones Jiminy broke. There were a bunch of folders on top of it, though, and Ms. Tennant came into the classroom just as I was setting them to one side to get at the dictionary.

“What do you think you’re doing there! Get your hands away from my purse!”

I didn’t even see her stupid purse there, and I said so, which got me sent to the principal’s office. Mr. Barnes told me stealing is a crime and talking back is rude and I needed to return anything I took and apologize to Ms. Tennant.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Ms. Tennant, who was standing there with her arms crossed and her stingy lips shaved down to just an angry line. I fixed my eyes on her shoes because I was seething mad, and I was afraid I might burn holes in her face if I looked her in the eye. “I didn’t take nothing, though. I just wanted to check the dictionary.”

Mr. Dubois came into Mr. Barnes’s office just then. Mr. Dubois is the other seventh grade teacher. Jiminy had him, when Jiminy was my age.

“Checking the dictionary—I approve,” he said with a smile. “What were you looking up?”

Ms. Tennant would never ask that. She would of just accused me of looking for dirty words. But Mr. Dubois sounded like he really wanted to know. Like he was actually interested.

“‘Clavicle,’ and ‘scapula,’” I told him. “I wanted to find out what bones they are.”

“And did you?”

“No, because …” I clamped my mouth shut. I’d just get in bigger trouble if I complained about Ms. Tennant.

Ms. Tennant rolled her eyes. “She’s making it up.”

“Why do you say that? It sounds to me more like she’s interested in bones. Curious about anatomy?” Mr. Dubois asked me.

“She was going through my purse.”

“I was not!”

“Was there anything missing from the purse?” Mr. Dubois asked.

Mr. Barnes looked irritated and started to say that he was handling the situation. Ms. Tennant looked like she’d just stepped on an eel. She said she hadn’t yet had a chance to check and she wasn’t exactly sure how much money was in her wallet anyway. When she said that, Mr. Dubois laughed.

“Well I don’t see as how you can go accusing people of stealing when you don’t even know for sure that anything’s missing.”

Then the bell rang, and Tucker Brady came in to do the announcements, and Mr. Barnes said it seemed the misunderstanding was cleared up, but looked at me sternly and said a few more words about backtalking and not rummaging around on Ms. Tennant’s desk without asking.

“You can use one of the dictionaries in my room, if you want,” Mr. Dubois said as we got to the classrooms, but Ms. Tennant bristled and said that wouldn’t be necessary.

So I found out that Jiminy fractured his collar bone and shoulder blade as well as his ribs. People get bruised and broken if they’re out at sea during a storm, but how does one person break another that way?

Maybe it was more than one person. Maybe they ganged up on him. Poor Jiminy. Do you feel forgotten, there in Clear Springs? Do you think no one cares what happens to you?

I haven’t forgotten you. I care.

I was talking to him in my head like that after school as me and Small Bill and Tammy walked home.

“Hey! Hey Em, you listening?” Small Bill said, coming round to stand in front of me. I nearly walked right into him, I was so lost in thought.

“You been visiting the Seafather at night or something? You need to shake the water out of your ears when you come back up,” he said.

“Sorry.”

Up at the corner was the gas station, with the state highway snaking away north. Go on it eighty miles, and then take another highway west if you want to get to Clear Springs.

Small Bill and Tammy were talking about Hurricane Helga, how the news had been saying it’s stalled out over the Gulf, but Snowy reported the sharks are already heading out into the deep water, away from shore, which means it’s on its way.

I frowned, because if the storm was coming soon, then there wouldn’t be a chance for me to find my way up to Clear Springs.

“Let’s cool off,” Tammy said, nodding at the door of the gas station store.

“You used up your money yesterday,” I pointed out.

“We can just sit on the bench,” she said.

We do that sometimes. They don’t like you hanging around in the store if you’re not buying anything, but if you sit on the bench right outside the door, you can get a big whoof of cool air any time anyone goes in or out.

“You still fuming about Ms. Tennant?” Small Bill asked as we flopped down on the bench. Tammy leaned forward, scanning the ground for bottle caps.

“Oh her. She can go sink. No, it’s Jiminy, still. I was thinking about trying to get to Clear Springs.”

A girl with a short ponytail and a T-shirt that said “Lookin’ for trouble?” across the chest shot me a funny look—like maybe she was looking for trouble—as she went into the store. We all leaned toward the breath of air-conditioned coolness.

“I was wondering if there was any way for me to make it up there before the hurricane comes. If it’s sitting out at sea, that’s one thing, but if the fish are already on the move …”

“Go after. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. He’ll be glad for visitors any time.”

For the second time that day, I forced myself to keep my mouth shut, so as not to say something I’d regret.

It’s not like he’s going anywhere.

Like Jiminy’s on a shelf. Like we can care about him some other time. Small Bill’s my best friend, so I know he didn’t mean it that way. It still hurts, though, and if I feel that way, just being Jiminy’s sister, how does Jiminy feel?

I told Small Bill what I’d found out about Jiminy’s injuries.

“That’s why I want to go see him now,” I said. “If there can please just be enough time to get to Clear Springs and back before the storm comes.”

There was another big puff of cool air as the girl in the t-shirt came back out with a big bottle of Diet Coke, a half-gallon of milk, and a pack of cigarettes.

She glanced down at us—at me.

“You fixing to go to Clear Springs, Louisiana?” she asked. Small Bill and I glanced at each other, and even Tammy frowned. Since when do strangers come up and ask you your plans?

“Is it the prison? You know someone inside?”

I guess I must of looked pretty surprised, because the girl laughed.

“Why else would anyone go to Clear Springs? Vacation? Ain’t nothing in that town but the prison and farms. My old boyfriend was there for a while. I ran away from home to go see him. At the time, I wasn’t too much older than you are now.” She put a foot up on the end of the bench, balanced the bag with the milk and Coke in it on her knee, and tore the plastic off the pack of cigarettes.

“Who is it? Your dad?” She lit the cigarette.

“My brother,” I said. Small Bill and Tammy were looking at me like, why’re you telling her this? but I was thinking, she has a car.

“I don’t miss Louisiana none,” she said. “I like Mississippi better. And Alabama’s not bad either, of course,” she added quickly. Like I care about Alabama or Mississippi or any other state!

She inhaled, and the end of the cigarette got bright. “I’ll take you as far as Clarksville, if you want a ride,” she said.

My thoughts came down in an avalanche on top of any words I might of had to reply. Clarksville—that’s halfway! But how do I get the rest of the way there? I shouldn’t try. Not now. I need to stay at home, help look after Tammy. Tammy needs me. But Jiminy does too. Gran said the Seafather would find a way to save Jiminy—and ain’t this a way? But what about Hurricane Helga? But a better chance might not come. No plan can be perfect.

“So, do you?” the girl asked, exhaling smoke.

You can’t see the sea from the gas station, so I looked to the sky for guidance. It had the thick, gray look of the innards of an old mattress. The air was stifling still, like the sky was holding it back, waiting for my answer.

“I have to do it,” I said to Tammy and Small Bill. I hadn’t been sure until I said it. Saying it made me sure.

Small Bill’s face was so serious, you might of thought he was angry, but he nodded. “‘A cup of fortune,’” he said.

“Come back before Helga,” Tammy whispered.

“I’ll try,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Thanks,” I said to the girl. “Yeah, I’d like a lift.”

“Great. I’m Hayley. What’s your name?” I told her, then waved goodbye to Small Bill and Tammy and followed her over to her car.

She liked her music pretty loud, so it was hard to hear everything she was saying, but all the same, I caught a fair amount about her old boyfriend, and how her and her mom hadn’t always seen eye to eye, though they got along now, and about running away and seeing Patrick and promising she’d marry him, even though she was only sixteen at the time. Being in prison had changed Patrick for the worse, she said (“That’s why it’s good you’re visiting—I should of visited more,” she told me), and anyway, in the meantime her and Nate had kind of started seeing each other, and then Patrick got involved with some real bad people—

Then the music stopped for an emergency broadcast, a funny, fake voice, like a robot, saying,

“HURRICANE HELGA NOW MOVING NORTH-NORTHWESTWARD TOWARD THE NORTHERN GULF COAST...HELGA IS NOW AN EXTREMELY DANGEROUS CATEGORY 4 HURRICANE ON THE SAFFIR-SIMPSON HURRICANE SCALE”

and

“A HURRICANE WARNING IS NOW IN EFFECT FOR THE NORTH CENTRAL GULF COAST FROM MORGAN CITY LOUISIANA EASTWARD TO PENSACOLA FLORIDA.”

and

“A HURRICANE WARNING MEANS THAT HURRICANE CONDITIONS ARE EXPECTED WITHIN THE WARNING AREA WITHIN THE NEXT 24 HOURS. PREPARATIONS TO PROTECT LIFE AND PROPERTY SHOULD BE RUSHED TO COMPLETION.”

And then a regular announcer came on and said the governor was ordering an evacuation of the coast.

My stomach tried to curl itself into a little ball, like it could hide from the news.

“I need to go back,” I blurted out. Sorry, Jiminy. I do care, I do. But you’re pretty much a grown-up, and Tammy’s just a kid.

“Are you crazy? With the storm coming? No way. You heard the report. It ain’t safe. They’re probably gonna close the road, anyway. Ride along with me as far as Clarksville. You can call your sister from there if you want, find out where your folks are evacuating to.”

I didn’t want to try to explain about Mermaid’s Hands, and how we always ride these things out. All I could think about was how it was a race now between me and Helga, who could get to Mermaid’s Hands first.

“No, I really gotta go back,” I said.

Hayley slowed down and pulled off the road by a small building with a big sign: Casey’s Hungry Man Coffee and Cornbread.

“I can let you out here, if you really want,” she said, looking doubtful. “We haven’t been on the road that long. Maybe you can hitch a ride part of the way back. Here.” She shifted in her seat so she could get her hand into her cutoffs. She pulled out a couple of dollar bills, all creased and soft from being in her pocket. “Get yourself something to drink before you head home.”

“Thanks. Hey, do you think—” I caught myself.

“Do I think what?”

“Clarksville’s really far away from Clear Springs … You never just go there, do you?”

“Drive all that way? Uh-uh. I told you, there’s nothing there but the prison.”

Of course she wouldn’t. I didn’t mean to let tears come, and I really didn’t mean for Hayley to see them, but it was too late. She bit her lip.

“Hey now, hey. Don’t cry. You were thinking I could visit your brother for you? That ain’t how it works. A stranger can’t just up and visit him. He has to put people on a list and things.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t meet her eye. It was quiet in the car for a minute.

“Tell you what. Maybe I could phone the people there, if you want,” she said. “Tell them Jiminy’s little sister’s trying to be in touch.”

I looked up. “Will you? Can you tell him his family hopes he heals up soon? Can you tell him his sister hasn’t forgotten about him?”

Hayley tucked some stray hairs behind her ear. “Yeah, okay,” she said softly. “What’s his full name?”

I wiped my eyes.

“Baptiste. Jiminy Baptiste.”

“Okay, Jiminy Baptiste. I’ll remember that.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I got out of her car, and she drove off. The sky wasn’t holding its breath any more: there was a panting sort of breeze all around, and the grass was flattening under it, but the dust was rising up. I started running back the way we’d come, but I stopped after a few hundred feet. Behind me, the sign for Casey’s Hungry Man Coffee and Cornbread still loomed tall. Up ahead, nothing familiar. We’d only been driving about twenty minutes, half an hour tops, but Hayley’d been going fast. I couldn’t beat Helga home by running. Hayley was right: I was going to have to try hitching a ride. I crossed over to the other side and started walking backward, but not much was coming by. One big truck, going fast. A pickup with two guys in it, laughing loud and swerving for the fun of it. I shrank way back from the side of the road and tried to be invisible, but they caught sight of me, screeched to a stop, then put the pickup in reverse.

“That a kid or a stray dog back there? Hey kid, hop in, we’ll throw you a bone or two! Hey, she’s running away—You know how to call a dog to heel?” And they were whistling and catcalling, but I was pounding back toward Casey’s Hungry Man Coffee and Cornbread, running so hard it felt like lightning in my lungs when I breathed in. Stupid, stupid, stupid, my feet said to me each time they hit the gravel.

But at least the creeps in the pickup didn’t chase after me. I was jelly-legged by the time I got to Casey’s, and feeling like I’d better sit a spell and think, so I used Hayley’s money to buy a Coke, and I started writing this on the paper placemat, hoping I could work out what to do next.

But now I’ve finished my Coke, and I still don’t know my next move. And it ain’t like Helga’s sitting somewhere biting her nails and wondering what to do. I guess better just start walking again and hope somebody safe to ride with comes by before they close the roads.

September 4 (Em’s diary, second entry)

I’m home now. It’s real late, but I have to write this all down.

I got a lift from one lady as far as her turnoff, and when she dropped me off, she asked if I wanted to use her phone to call anyone, but I don’t know what Mr. Tiptoe’s number is, so I said no, I was nearly home. I didn’t want her to worry. After that it started raining, fine as mist, but coming fast, in ripples like wind through sheets hung out to dry. Traffic going north was getting real heavy, but hardly anything was going south, and what there was was going real fast. I kept on getting splashed, but I didn’t care. Just keep going, keep going, I was telling myself. And then I heard a bunch of honking, and I could tell from the shape behind the headlights that it was another pickup, and I felt a spike of panic, because I was too beat to run away again. Then I heard a voice say “Em! Emlee, get yourself over here!” It was Dad and Mr. Tiptoe, in the Mermaid’s Hands truck. Turns out they’d been driving up and down all the roads hereabouts, looking for me.

When we got home, Tammy confessed.

“I told. I’m sorry.” She hung her head and wouldn’t look at me.

“‘sokay. I’m glad you did. It was stupid, what I did,” I said.

Sometimes all my ideas seem stupid.

“I’m just sorry I made trouble for everybody.”

Gran came up from behind and gave me a surprise hug.

“It wasn’t no trouble. We can’t have any little minnows going missing. And you ain’t stupid. You’re a loyal sister. And so’s Tammy.” She beckoned for Tammy and Tammy squirmed into the hug too. From over the top of Tammy’s head, I could see Ma glance at Dad, but he wasn’t letting his thoughts or feelings show in his face.

“Em. Come here. I have something for you,” he said. “Another letter from that friend of yours overseas.”

I opened it and read it. Now I feel scared and sick again, but for Kaya. I’m pasting the letter in here, because I’m keeping my diary with me even if the Seafather decides to take all of Mermaid’s Hands down to the merlands. Here’s what Kaya wrote:

August 28

Dear Em,

I’ve walked the perimeter of this floating prison three times, trying to calm down, but my hands are still shaking, so please forgive the poor handwriting. I had planned to write one sort of letter to you, but what happened just now has sent those thoughts flying away.

I don’t receive any news of the outside world unless the government brings it to me, which it did today, wrapped in accusations and threats. It seems the spirit of unrest is bubbling up among my people once again. Some of the old activists, who have lived quietly all these years, have been demanding to know why my friends in prison have not been brought to trial, and why, if the government is sincere in its claims to honor me, no one has been permitted to see me. They have been asking their friends and neighbors, Are we going to be content forever to accept whatever laws and judgments the coastal government presses on us? And more and more people are answering no.

And so today two officers from the State Security Service paid me a special visit—apparently the matter was too urgent to wait for the weekly supply helicopter. They said that I must tell everyone to cease and desist, to stand down and return to work, to fulfill their responsibilities as citizens—they gave me a long script.

“You need me to actually say these things?” I asked. “Why not just claim that I did—who can contradict you?” One of them looked like he might hit me at that point, but the other stopped him. People are waiting for a message from me, he said. The government wants to film me conveying that message. The government’s message.

“I’ll do no such thing,” I told them. I said it without thinking, I was so angry. The officers seemed barely able to believe it. The violent one asked if I had forgotten how very precarious my situation was. The more reasonable one said I should think of the consequences of my decision for everyone else.

“No one’s died—yet,” he said. “Do you want deaths on your conscience?”

“My conscience? Not yours?” I said.

Then the bully of the pair lunged forward and kicked over the low table where I write and eat, spilling everything to the floor. In one step he was standing right over me. I had no time to flinch or shield myself: that same boot struck me right in the chest and I fell back on the floor. It hurt terribly! I couldn’t breathe for a moment, and I couldn’t see anything, just red darkness, but I could hear the bully knocking down the stack of books I keep beside the table and scattering and flinging around the few loose items in the room. When my sight and breath returned, I saw the other officer gathering up my books and papers. He said they were confiscating them as I needed time to think things over without distractions.

Do you keep a diary or journal, Em? I was keeping one, these past few weeks. I was writing up my memories in a notebook. I was recording my inmost thoughts and feelings. Private things. And now the State Security Service has it. I feel more exposed than I would if they had taken my clothes.

As they were climbing into the helicopter to leave, the bully said, “I’m not sure we can spare a helicopter next week, so bear that in mind when you get this week’s delivery,” and the other one said, “I hope you’ll consider your options carefully.”

My options. I never intended to launch a rebellion. I don’t want to be responsible for people dying! But does that mean I must tell people to acquiesce to injustice?

I remember, in your last letter, you said you thought our festival must have made the Lady of the Ruby Lake happy. I am much less sure. You said the Lady’s love could not be gentle. I find myself wishing for more evidence of that love, even ungentle. I feel only her absence.

Well, I must close now. My head and chest and back ache; I need to rest. I would like to dream of your mudflats and your seagifts. Such abundance!

Your friend,

Kaya

P.S. My dear Em, a very strange thing happened just now. I lay down to rest, as I said I would, and I had a dream, about you! A young girl was walking out of the ocean toward me, and in the dream I was certain it was you. Now I wish I could see a photo of you. In my dream, you had thick, dark hair that curled around your face, and wide, dark eyes. You had something in your hands. I asked what, and you smiled and showed me—night crawlers. “Are we going fishing?” I asked, and you said, “Do you know what these are?” I cupped my hands, and you emptied yours, but it wasn’t worms that I caught, it was butterflies. They flew away from me up into the trees, and suddenly the trees were full of blossoms. I laughed, and looked over at you, and when I did, I noticed steam rising from where you had walked through the water. And I realized that somehow you were the Lady of the Ruby Lake. I didn’t know what to say. “Did you-did you like the festival?” I finally managed to stammer, but you just grinned and said, “Thank you for being my friend.”

This dream frightens and excites me. Maybe the Lady really can be a friend to me, and through me, to all the mountain people. Distant, like you’re distant, but real, like you’re real.

I gotta write her back right away. And then, when this storm’s past, I’ll send it.