If their house is small enough, even two sisters who are not talking to each other still have to talk to each other even if one of them cannot talk. After Mab and Mirabel fight, Mirabel goes straight to our room, but she cannot slam the door behind her so I pretend she just went in there to do homework or read a library book. Mab can slam the door behind her, and the door she slams behind her is the front door because she is so mad she leaves the house, but four minutes later she comes back because it is cold outside and too dark to walk in the woods. She comes into the bedroom and slams that door too, but we are already in there so I do not think it works.
I am on my bed and Mirabel is on hers so the only places for Mab to sit are in Mirabel’s wheelchair, which she would not do, or her own bed, but she lies on it and faces the wall and the postcards instead of sitting and facing us.
And she does not say sorry.
That is all the mad you can be in our house.
But Mab is also impatient so she only waits two minutes before she rolls over and says, “Fine. We’ll compromise.”
Mirabel is very patient so she does not say anything so neither do I. So Mab says, “Also I had sex.”
Mirabel wants to be mad, but I think she also wants to hear about the sex. I do not want Mirabel to be mad, but I also do not want to hear about the sex. Or, to be more accurate, I want to not hear about the sex.
“Let us start with the compromise,” I say.
Mab does a big sigh. “I get that Mama won’t tell Russell what Nathan said in therapy,” she says to Mirabel, “and I get you won’t either. But he’s no different from Apple, so what if we did your plan for her sessions where something she told would just point us in the right direction? What if we used what he said to find evidence ourselves?”
Mirabel makes a motion with her hand that means Like what?
“Like what if we found his dissertation?”
A dissertation is less than a book but more than homework, so it is not something you can buy online and have shipped to your house, and it is not something that will be on the shelf in any library you visit, not even any library you visit except one that is just leftovers in someone’s home. But Mirabel says it is something that might be on the shelf in one library, and that is the library of the college where it was written, like how not everyone’s picture frames hold a photograph of you but your mother’s picture frames probably do.
“We cannot visit Nathan’s college library because it is too far away,” I object.
Mirabel types. “Interlibrary loan.”
“We don’t have a library on this end,” Mab says.
“Lie!” I shout.
And that is how I find myself on the telephone dialing the library at Nathan’s college.
“Library,” says the person who answers, which I like because it is simple and direct. No one ever calls me, but if they did, that is how I would like to answer.
“Good evening,” I say politely. “I am calling to ask one librarian to another if you will send me a copy of Nathan Templeton’s dissertation via interlibrary loan.”
“I’m sorry,” says the other librarian, but she does not sound sorry. She sounds confused. “Who is this?”
“This is Monday Mitchell,” I say. “A librarian.”
“You sound very young, Monday.”
“I am sixteen.”
“I see,” the other librarian says. “And what’s the name of your library?”
“My library does not have a name.”
“Why doesn’t your library have a name?”
“It is in my house.”
“Ah,” says the librarian. “I think I see your problem. A library is not a house.”
“That is not my problem,” I correct.
“Who is Nathan Templeton?” she asks.
“He was a student of yours, and he did homework we know about but cannot discuss without reading.”
“I see.” The other librarian laughs, but I do not know why because I have not made a joke, but I do hear typing. “Well Monday Mitchell, Librarian, I’m not finding any record of a dissertation or any other publication by a Nathan Templeton, and I’m afraid we don’t keep student homework, nor are we able to send materials via interlibrary loan to someone’s house.”
“Even if their house is a library?” I ask.
“Even if. However, I like your style.”
I look down. I am wearing a yellow cardigan over a yellow T-shirt over mustard-colored pants and socks. “You cannot see my style.”
“I like your spirit, I mean,” she says. “Being a sixteen-year-old librarian is impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say, both because it is polite and because her words make me feel grateful.
“Keep reading, Monday, and keep librarying.”
“‘Librarying’ is not a word,” I say.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t do it, though, does it?” the other librarian asks, and it is surprising but that is an accurate thing to say.
After we hang up, Mab says, “Google?”
And I say, “It is an exaggeration to say we have googled Duke Templeton and Nathan Templeton and GL606 and Belsum Chemical a million times, but it is only a slight exaggeration.”
Mirabel types. “Gala 606,” her Voice says because we have never known the full name of GL606 before or even that GL606 was an abbreviation. I do not like abbreviations.
But when we google Gala 606, the only thing we find is pictures of people at fancy parties and pictures of apples.
“Is it not strange”—I am scrolling through all the pictures on the screen—“that Apple’s name is Apple, and when we search for Gala 606, we find pictures of apples? That is a good coincidence.”
“No,” says Mirabel’s Voice.
Mab rolls her eyes, which is usually at me but which right now is at Mirabel who is answering in one word only instead of explaining what she actually means.
So Mirabel adds, “It’s a pun.”
“What is a pun, Three?”
Longer typing. “He named the chemical after her and the night he kissed her.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Love,” her Voice says, which does not answer the question.
Mab agrees because she says, “What kind of loser thinks the way to a girl’s heart is puns?”
“Her name,” says Mirabel’s Voice.
“Huh?” Mab’s face shows irritated again.
“Her maiden name,” Mirabel types. “Apple Grove,” Mirabel types. “Apple said in therapy”—many of Mirabel’s sentences to us start that way recently so she has that part saved, but then we have to wait while she types the rest—“her grandmother liked puns.”
“Weird,” Mab says. But then she sits up. “Oh. Like Uncle Hickory.”
“Who is Uncle Hickory?” I ask.
“River’s great-uncle. Remember? That giant painting at their house? It’s in his father’s office so I thought he was his dad’s uncle. But he must be Apple’s uncle. Uncle Hickory. Hickory Grove. I get it.”
“Ha ha,” I say rather than actually laughing because I get it too but it is not funny. “Probably the painting is in Nathan’s office, even though he is Apple’s uncle, because that is where it fit best based on its size or color scheme, but on the—”
That is when I stop talking right in the middle of a sentence.
Because that is when I remember a folder in the box called Flora.
Mirabel was right. It was in the house all along. I found it and did not know I found it, not because I did not know what I was looking for, which is what I have been thinking, but because I did not know what it was. I had it right in my hands the day I found the Santa photograph, a folder labeled Elm/Hickory Grove, filed in the Flora box because whoever put it there thought what I thought, which is that a folder titled Elm/Hickory Grove must hold papers pertaining to trees. But Elm/Hickory Grove are not trees. Or, to be more accurate, they are not only trees. They are also brothers. They are Apple’s uncle, Hickory Grove, and Apple’s father, Elmer Grove.
At first I think the most important lesson I learn is do not name your children puns because it confuses everyone in the world for all of time to come who is not your direct descendant. But when I re-find the file, I realize that there are other more important lessons than that.
In the file are four letters. They are handwritten, so harder to read than typing, but with neat handwriting, so we can still read what they say, and on paper that is yellow (good) because it is old (less good). So I am very careful when I hold the pages and read them out loud.
Dear Hickory,
Ran into Duke Templeton at a party at the Gladstones’ last night. He’s an insufferable ass, worse with a few drinks in him, but now that the kids are together, he seems to consider us family and has zero compunction about cornering me at a social occasion to make unreasonable business propositions and demands. Nathan seems like a nice enough kid, but I fear Apple will outgrow him. In fact, I’m certain she’ll outgrow him. It’s just that I imagine she’ll marry him first. Every time the phone rings, I’m expecting it to be Nathan Templeton requesting my daughter’s hand in marriage. I long for the days when asking the father’s permission was something other than an old-fashioned gesture you cannot possibly say no to.
Therefore, Duke presumes not only that we’ll sell him the land he wants but that we’ll give him a great deal on it. He’s eager to buy about twenty acres in Bourne for some kind of chemical plant they are hoping to have up and running by late next year. I said you were there at the moment with Mother and Dad, and I’d check with you and get back to him. I reiterated your offer of the land below the orchard and told him I considered the rate you quoted him quite generous. He explained though that their operations require a river—apparently for some pretty questionable effluvia so the less we know the better—so he’s interested only in the land by the river. I said that though we do indeed own all the land by the river as well, there’s less of it, and it is quite a bit more expensive, even for almost-family. Between you and me, I would much prefer to talk him into that vacant land instead because then we’ll be able to sell both. We get the money for the orchard land, and then, when his plant opens and brings in lots of new workers, we’ll be able to jack up the price of the river properties. It’s win-win. If you disagree with any of the rates I quoted, let me know soonest. Otherwise, I will proceed by holding firm and awaiting his reply.
Yours,
Elmer
“What is effluvia?” I say.
Mirabel taps at her tablet. “Run off.” Her Voice seems to be giving me a command.
“Run off where?” I ask.
“Not run off,” says Mab. “Runoff. Effluent. Shit that’s leaked by a chemical plant into a river that then runs downstream and poisons the water and the soil and everyone who lives there.”
“So Nathan’s parents knew and Apple’s parents knew and everyone’s parents always knew?”
“Not everyone’s,” says Mab, and she means our parents. Our parents did not know.
That is all anyone says for a while because it is hard to think about how some people so far away so long ago said okay to a thing that would totally change or, to be more accurate, harm my life before my life had even started because some wanted to sell land and some wanted to sell chemicals. And maybe the reason it is hard to think about is it is mean and a sad statement about human nature, or maybe the reason it is hard to think about is because maybe those people poisoned us.
Here is what the rest of the letters say:
Dear Hickory,
Your solution to all this is a stroke of genius. I know it’s tiresome being there, but I wonder if you would have come up with it from Boston. If it took actually walking the land to think of this, it was worth it. That’s easy for me to say from here, but I’m grateful, and you’ll be home soon enough, sooner now that we’re sure to make progress.
Harvey is on the Cape for a month, but another of the partners and two of his associates all assure me that your idea falls under the category of infrastructure and therefore, in this case, is the purview of the local government, not the landowners. So you have to get the mayor and town council on board, but once you do, they, not we, will incur the expense of both construction and maintenance going forward. Harvey’s partner had an engineer who sometimes does work for him take a look. That guy told us that the diversion of the river to the orchard will create a greenbelt where the river is currently and a small lake just upstream. So Harvey’s partner thinks the way to sell the mayor and town council on this is by pointing out there will be a greenbelt, a lake, and a pretty new park. You’d know better than I, but last I was there, Mother was telling me that the mayor’s finally retiring later this year. Perhaps he’ll be eager to leave a legacy in the form of a beautified town and be unconcerned about the price tag as it will soon no longer be his problem.
Will keep you posted.
Elm
Dear Hick,
Thrilled to hear the mayor and town council have agreed to finance construction. Smart of you not to even mention the Templetons or their plans for a chemical plant. Why muddy the waters, so to speak? That battle will belong to whoever wins the race for the next mayor anyway. It’s not this guy’s problem, and it’s not ours either.
I invited Duke Templeton for lunch at the club yesterday. Because the orchard land will now have a river running through it, I significantly raised the asking price. When he balked, I cited increased expenses owing to having to build such substantial infrastructure. Who exactly is paying for what is not a detail he will have or could even reasonably expect to have access to. And regardless, the land is now quite a bit more valuable, so of course the price has gone up. It took some doing, but we settled, at last, on quite favorable terms.
I have to admit to being secretly pleased that the outgoing mayor put a caveat on all this. I like a worthy adversary, negotiators who do something other than roll over and die, and I happen to agree with him that an in-kind donation is appropriate in this case. They should get something out of it. His argument that a growing town ought to be able to grow their minds as well is quaint, so I say we agree to the stipulation that we build the town a real library as a bit of tit for tat. I understand your concern over the cost, but they’re right that lending moldy old books and dated reading material out of their church basement is pitiable. I have a solution which, while maybe not as heaven-sent as yours, will, I think, make you quite happy. What if we converted Mother and Dad’s house? I know Mother likes it there, but how much more small-town living can Dad possibly take? And now that there’s a wedding to plan, Mother will want to be here to help Apple pick china patterns or bridesmaids’ dresses or whatever else needs butting into. The house is enormous so we can bequeath it for use as a library, and the only real expenses will be shelving and some new books. And then you can all leave poor little Bourne for more civilized climes. As I keep saying: win-win.
Yours etc.
Elm
Dear Hickory,
It’s done. The moment Bourne Town Council signed the paperwork and broke ground, our land deal went through with the Templetons for more than we dared hope. What happens next is Duke Templeton’s business to negotiate with Bourne and whoever they elect as mayor, not ours. I will be thrilled to wash my hands of this and have all of you out of there.
I don’t know if she mentioned it to you, but as a parting gift, Mother’s designing a stained-glass mural to replace their living room picture window in the hopes this will make the old place seem less like a cast-off house and more like a library. I see why she likes it there—it’s a pretty little town—but I’ve never had a good feeling about their prospects. We did well to buy up so much land so inexpensively and sell on the upswing. But I fear it will not last. There is something about that place that makes me think there is more standing between them and good fortune than a lake and a park and a library. Perhaps the plant will bring an influx of new jobs, but between you and me, I don’t trust the Templetons and will be glad to have you all living somewhere where your well-being is not dependent on their integrity.
No one on the Templetons’ side has thought to ask for the deed or anything else, and why would they? The sale is contingent only on the river running through the land they’ve bought, and we have assured them it will do so. They don’t care how, and even if they did, they wouldn’t ask in case it’s not been on the level. They certainly don’t want to take responsibility for any more than they have to, so I doubt they’ll think to ask for a very long time. What Bourne does next regarding the Templetons is their own decision to make, and we are lucky that we will all be somewhere else when they do so.
Your loving brother,
Elmer
I finish reading.
No one says anything.
Then Mab says, “Oh.”
Then she gets up and rummages around on her desk until she locates the emails River gave her.
First her face gets very white and then it gets very red. First her face gets very serious and then it smiles, but it is not a smile that means happy. It is a smile that means crazy. “I don’t believe it.” She laughs. It would be more accurate to say she cackles. “It’s a typo.”
“What typo?” People should proofread. It is a critical step because it ensures you have conveyed your intended meaning, and meaning is important. Otherwise, why would you bother to write it down?
“They’re not worried we’ll find the damn paperwork.” Mab’s face shows happy, surprised, and angry all at once which should not be possible but is. “They’re worried we’ll find the dam paperwork.”
I think she has forgotten all about the sex. So that is one good thing.