Chapter 8

Eine Kleine Wassermusik: A little water music

A face loomed next to mine through the dusky water. It was Mo! His hands gripped my ankles like steel bands.

A vision of Gram flashed through my mind. Had Mo killed her? Would he kill me, too? My head was swelling, ready to burst.

I was going to die. Soon. Needed air. I gulped the dank water into my lungs, panicking under the water, as I always did. I was surprised when my life didn’t flash before my eyes.

One more tremendous kick.

And I was free. Paddling with frantic strokes, I burst through to the top and slapped the surface, treading water, sputtering, choking, and gulping huge quantities of sweet, sweet air. Mo surfaced beside me.

“Sorry,” he said, flashing his fabulous smile and supporting me by my arms. “Guess I shouldn’t have held you under so long, huh?”

“What,” I shouted, choking and gasping for breath, “were you… trying… to do?”

“Just foolin’ around. I thought you’d think it was funny. I said I was sorry.” He sounded like a little kid caught at the cookie jar. He dropped his hold on me and I stabilized myself, still coughing and spitting out foul-tasting water. How could this stuff support life?

“Forgive me?” he grinned. “I won’t do it again. Promise.”

“Damn right you won’t!” I ignored his surprised expression and swam back to shore. I gathered my things, looked at my watch, and realized with a jolt that I needed to hurry to get ready for my trip into Alpha. I didn’t know if Mo was just an idiot, or if he had a cruel streak like my cousins.

I gave Mo a look I hoped was fierce and hurried up the hill past the dark, empty space with the shriveled trees. The place reminded me of the sad, sweet ballad, “Scarborough Fair,” set in the ancient Dorian mode, with its allusions to the medieval Black Death. I climbed past a cabin with blue shutters that had a tent camper parked in front. I moved past another smaller one until I reached my yard and heard a loud, grating voice behind me.

Toombs had just burst out of the blue-shuttered house. He turned back and shouted in his high, whiny tones, “You better remember what I said! There’s such a thing as decimation of character!” He slammed the door furiously, rattled those shutters, then turned and saw me.

“Hello, there,” he snapped and strode stiffly away for a couple of steps. Then he stopped abruptly, turned back, and stomped over to face me. I took a step back.

“That’s what comes of higher education.” He pointed at the cottage. “Higher education is overrated, let me tell ya. Me, for instance, I’m self-educated. I never got no degree, and I got a lot of responsibility here. Like I always say, it’s a big job, keepin’ all these folks happy.”

I shifted over a few inches in an attempt to get upwind of Toombs’s hair oil. And his beer breath.

“That girl has high school and a bunch of college. Her mom always told her she ‘had to have an education.’ Ha! What do you need an education for to lay around gettin’ dirty ideas from soap operas all day long? She has the guts to accuse me of …” He sputtered to a stop.

“I love those girls,” he droned on at a lower volume. “I would never really hurt ‘em. Sorry to take on like this in front of you, Miss Carraway. Hayley’s got me so upset, I can’t spit straight.”

He disproved this immediately by arcing a glob directly into the grass, then crunched angrily down the slope. I wasn’t sad to see him go. How violent could Toombs get? I wondered.

Two small girls made their way from the back of the cottage, one stealthy step at a time, peered around and watched until Toombs disappeared, then scampered in my direction, stopping at the cabin next to mine. Were these the girls Toombs would “never really hurt”?

I walked toward them, trying to be careful and not scare them away. They looked skittish.

“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Cressa. What are yours?”

The smaller one looked at the ground as if something very absorbing were there. She had thin straight hair and a pinched, homely face. A half-dressed Barbie doll was clutched in one hand. The older one put her arm around the little one and answered me.

“I’m Rebecca. And this is Rachel.”

Rebecca was a bit cuter, but also had the same wispy, thin blond hair.

“That’s a pretty doll,” I said gently to Rachel, trying to get around her shyness.

She whipped the doll around behind her.

Rebecca’s thin cheek was disfigured by the purple smudge of a large bruise.

“It looks like you’ve hurt yourself,” I said, unconsciously reaching toward her little face.

Rebecca pulled back. From what I’d just heard, it sounded like Mo’s father didn’t treat them well. I had to find out if these children needed help.

“How did that happen?” I persisted, gesturing toward her bruise, but being careful not to touch her.

Shy Rachel mumbled, “Uncle Mo.”

I was seething inside. “Is Uncle Mo mean to you?”

Rachel remained silent while her big sister took over. “Not very much. He was more mean to the other lady.”

“Who was that, honey?”

“The other one, the one that lived there.” She pointed to my cabin. “The one that died.” She spoke so softly, I could barely hear her.

“That was my grandmother.” I questioned her with a look.

“Down there,” she pointed toward the lake. “Uncle Mo was there.”

The hair raised on my scalp. I needed to learn a lot more about Uncle Mo—from a distance. “At the lake?” I asked.

She nodded.

“When?”

“When she died.” Rebecca looked down and kicked at the gravel. “I saw her die.” Then the little girls ran to the nearest cabin and pounded on the door.

That wasn’t where Toombs had come from. Maybe they weren’t the girls he was whining about. The screen door opened and they disappeared inside.