On Home Page 15

  Cassidy

  Cassidy thought about her goodbye hug with Noeli as she tramped up the holler to the double-wide trailer that Simon’s dad had secured to the ground with concrete before leaving Simon, his mother, and his brother for a linesman job in Colorado and never returning. She could still smell the green apple scent of Noeli’s curls.

  Their trailer was in the center of an arching row of ones just like it, all cemented to the earth, each with their own unique pile of junk in the yard—rusting car bodies, broken baby jumpers, an old washing machine.

  Simon’s mom opened the door.

  “Hey, Cassidy honey. How’re you doin’?” She smelled just as Cassidy remembered, like old cigarettes and Bath & Body Works Sun-Ripened Raspberry.

  “I’m all right, Beth. How are you?”

  “You know, same old shit.” She threw a skinny arm out, gesturing into the once-mobile home. Indeed, the home looked like it always had—boxes of Camel Lights stacked high on the kitchen counter, the small sink overflowing with dirty dishes. Stacks of Us Weekly lay scattered on the floor in the place a coffee table might be in another home, and filthy ashtrays were everywhere—the floor, the table, the arms of the love seat and recliner. There was something different about it though—a quality of disarray that Cassidy couldn’t quite place. It had always been dirty—the kind of place that made her feel older than she was when she hung out there as a teenager, but this was different. She noticed something else, then. Scattered among the cigarettes, the magazines, the ashtrays, and the dirty dishes were empty pill containers, many on their sides, their tops long gone, others stacked neatly in lines, the way a child might lay out blocks.

  Cassidy looked back to Beth and saw her arm, still outstretched, was mottled from the middle of her forearm to just above her elbow by a pale gray bruise. The sudden realization of what this meant made Cassidy gasp. Before she could stop herself from staring, the sight of black crusting scabs in a neat line starting just under the bruise and moving down toward Beth’s wrist brought a wave of nausea. Cassidy had to look away.

  “Is, uh, Simon here?” She felt heartbroken for Beth, this woman she had known since she was twelve, who had felt like a coconspirator at times, sneaking her Doritos though Paloma wouldn’t buy them, who had given her and Simon the privacy they needed as teenagers to make this space feel like a sanctuary. Even among the outdated decorations—the creepy porcelain dolls on tiny rocking chairs; the sagging couches; the large wooden gun cabinet, empty since Simon’s dad had left, save for a .22 and two BB guns, one Simon’s and one his brother’s—the trailer had felt homey and welcoming. Now the atmosphere had shifted to sad and stifling.

  “Simon!” Beth called, her voice gravelly.

  Simon appeared behind her, looking apologetic, his hair combed neatly to one side. He looked so out of place—so responsible and handsome and clean.

  “See you later, Mom,” Simon said, practically closing the door in Beth’s face.

  “Hey,” she called out, pushing it back open. Her fingers were spindly and her nails dirty. “You aren’t going to bring your brother?”

  “He doesn’t want to come,” Simon said.

  “Robbie!” Beth called out.

  “What!” a voice growled from the direction of the bedrooms.

  “Get your lazy ass out here.”

  Simon’s older brother, Robbie, slumped into the room, his wiry frame hidden by baggy Levi’s and a stained gray hoodie. His eyes looked hollow, big gray circles seemed to make up the majority of his face, and he clutched the top of a two-liter of Mountain Dew.

  “Do you want to come to Sago?” Simon asked in the same tone a child would say “I’m sorry” if they had been forced to apologize.

  “Why the fuck would I want to go to Sago?” Robbie turned back around, disappearing again.

  “Bye, Mom,” Simon said, closing the door hard.

  Cassidy waited for Simon to speak first, but he said nothing. He turned up the music and “California Sun” rattled through the Porsche’s old speakers.

  “Wait, this is on the Greatest Hits album?” Cassidy asked.

  “Nope.” Simon grinned.

  “You got the tape out?”

  Simon’s smile widened as he nodded.

  “And you put in another Ramones tape?”

  Simon smirked.

  “It’s bad, Cass,” he finally said when the song ended. “Both of them. I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “They’re not your responsibility.”

  “Who else’s responsibility would they be?” he asked.

  “Their own.”

  Simon snorted.

  Cassidy wanted to argue, to insist he take a stand, do something, get them help, but she had read the indictment lists in the Record Delta. How much help would it do Beth and Robbie to get arrested?

  She looked at her friend in awe. He was so solid, so steady, so calm in his quietness.

  “What was the movie with the brothers we watched for an ice cream party once?” Simon said, changing the subject as he turned onto Sago Road, toward the river.

  “I think it was just called Step Brothers. ‘Did we just become best friends?’” Cassidy said in her best Will Ferrell voice.

  “Yep!” Simon quoted, and they high-fived, cracking up. Their hands lingered for a moment on the center console before Cassidy pulled hers away. She was surprised at how little anxiety she felt on the long drive.

  Simon followed the winding curves of the road until they reached a small turnout. There were no other cars—not surprising, given the season, and Simon and Cassidy got out and began walking along the old railroad track.

  On the left, the thawing river babbled. Cassidy glanced up the hill to their right at a hulking piece of mining equipment and imagined the miners—people she knew, who she saw at Sheetz and Walmart and C.J. Maggie’s—wearing helmets and coveralls, covered in coal dust, their headlamps shining into the dark like stars.

  Simon carried a rolled beach towel tucked under an arm and his keys around his neck on a piece of leather. Cassidy carried a tote bag with her own towel, a change of clothes, and a granola bar. Simon led the way slowly, balancing occasionally on the track like a beam, sometimes walking beside it. It was always a kind of meditation, this trek to the river—a passage from one world to another.

  “You all right back there?” Simon asked.

  “Yup.” The rocks under the tracks pressed through the rubber soles of her shoes. When they reached the clearing down to the usual spot—the Buckhannon River green and wide and dotted with rocks ten feet across—they climbed carefully down the sloping bank. She turned her feet sideways, like her dad had taught her, to give herself more surface area and stop herself from slipping.

  Once at the water, they stepped their way across smaller stones and big tilted boulders to a shelflike slab directly in the sunlight. There, they spread their towels on the flat rock and lay on their bellies, side by side, soaking in the warmth.

  “Isn’t it weird how when other people hear ‘Sago,’ they just think of the mine disaster?” Cassidy mused.

  “I don’t think most people think of anything when they hear ‘Sago,’” Simon said.

  “That’s weird, too. But yeah. I don’t know if I’ll ever have that be my primary connection with the place. It’s just . . . here.”

  Simon nodded, thinking. “It’s hard to imagine that happened in a place so beautiful,” he said.

  Cassidy opened her eyes and looked at the far shore. The river was lined with thick pines on either side and the water made a constant bubbling sound.

  “Can you believe that fucker ran for state senate?” Simon asked.

  “The coal guy? With all the safety violations? Yeah, that’s ridiculous.”

  It was strange talking West Virginia politics with Simon. In high school they’d often discussed national
stuff, global stuff, and what Cassidy saw as “big” issues. Punk music had radicalized him about those, and Cassidy always figured he knew what he was talking about, but local or state affairs had never made their radar. Simon had worn a Free Mumia shirt for most of junior year; a history teacher sent Cassidy to the back of the room when she called him out for referring to Japanese people as “Orientals.” Local stuff had seemed insignificant—removed from the important things happening in the world.

  How had they not realized it was the local stuff that mattered? Cassidy thought about her classmates’ relatives trapped underground. She thought of the scabs on Beth’s arm and the dark circles under Robbie’s eyes. It was all connected. If the rest of the country weren’t so dependent on coal, West Virginia wouldn’t have to mine it. If the War on Drugs weren’t such a fucking joke . . . Cassidy rolled onto her back and stared up at the sky, which was unobstructed by trees from this vantage point in the middle of the river.

  “Cass,” Simon said. He pushed himself up to seated and stared over at the far bank. Cassidy watched him, lifting one arm to shield her face from the sun. “Were you with Noeli? Was she your girlfriend?”

  “No. She was a friend.”

  Simon took several deep breaths, biting his lower lip. Finally he squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he looked determined. “Cass, I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” he blurted. She propped herself up on her elbows and let him continue.

  “I know this probably isn’t the time to tell you. I know. With your dad and everything. And I know you usually like women anyway.”

  Cassidy sat up all the way now, listening.

  “Cass, I would be so good to you.”

  “Simon,” Cassidy started. She didn’t know what to say. He’d always been more like a brother than anything else. Here with him now, though, hearing this, she noticed how handsome he was. He had lost the chubby cheeks that had made him look younger than his age for so long, and he’d become lean and muscular from working in the gardens. Cassidy thought about his compassion and loyalty, caring for his family, how steadfast and dependable he had always been. He was so familiar and so safe. At the same time, there was something new and intriguing about him. If she had met him online, he would have been a breath of fresh air—a break from old, hairy men.

  Maybe she should kiss him.

  Simon had changed since Cassidy had been to Buckhannon last. He was more confident, and there was something about being here, too, in Buckhannon, and here, at the river, on this rock. There was a gritty sensuality—a realness. This place had a tangible physicality that seemed to amplify Cassidy’s sense of body. This wasn’t pretend. It wasn’t an act.

  She really should kiss him.

  She almost did it. She almost leaned in, tilted her head, and parted her lips. She could see it playing like a movie in her mind. She would kiss him. They would kiss, on this rock, in this town, and it would mean . . . something.

  “Simon,” Cassidy said again, and his face perked up, like it had when she’d given him a NOFX CD for Christmas in ninth grade. That was it—she couldn’t see him from an outsider’s perspective. He would always be the kid she grew up with, regardless of who he was now, and he would always be part of here, of Buckhannon. The weight of Buckhannon, of all of it—of her dad and her grandma and her mom’s hippie friends, of how Paloma had said she’d never loved Ken, of the mine disaster and Simon’s mom and brother, and just all of it. It was crushing. Pretend was light and free. Real was suffocating.

  Buckhannon was more than a place now. It was a mass, pressing down with all the heaviness of all of those awful things. It was a place where the unthinkable could happen, and Simon was too much a part of it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, and looked away from him, toward the pines on the shore.

  Simon’s eyes creased at the corners and his lips turned down, but he nodded, holding his tears at bay, and lay back down on the rock.

  Cassidy lay down and grabbed Simon’s hand as they stared up at the clouds. Simon had never cared what other people said about her. Cassidy showed her most private parts to men with Confederate flags in their profiles, told men whose wives thought they were showering that she wished she could suck their cocks. She could do this for Simon. He deserved it. Cassidy rolled over and took Simon’s face in her hands. She kissed him, then unbuttoned his jeans. The river flowed around the rock where they lay, parting and bubbling, always moving, moving, moving.

  Jane

  Jane had been so happy after the Hamilton. She’d wanted to skip, to click her heels. She’d drowned herself in work, not for the usual purpose of numbing her melancholy, but to pass the time until she could see Owen again.

  “Are you bringing anyone to the picnic?” Flossie asked, making the rounds with her clipboard.

  “I’m having trouble narrowing it down,” Erma said.

  Flossie shook her head. “Well, narrow it down. I’m putting you down for a guest.”

  “Golly, I’m not sure,” Peggy wondered aloud. “How does anyone make plans for three days away?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m unable to attend,” said Claudine. Unsurprised, Flossie made a note on her clipboard. Claudine winked at Jane.

  “And you’re bringing Ding, I suppose?”

  Jane cleared her throat and looked at the floor. “I have another guest, actually.” Her heart took on the lazy swing of a Glenn Miller tune and she blushed.

  She looked up to see Claudine giving her a discreet smile before she looked away. The other girls demanded more information immediately.

  “Only our second date.”

  “The Hamilton.”

  “It was marvelous.”

  “An officer, yes. Navy.”

  “Washington state.”

  Jane had not officially invited Owen to the FBI picnic. Rather, she had forgotten about it. The FBI picnic, suddenly, was child’s play and Jane was a woman. Surely, though, Owen would humor her when she told him she was obligated—he had picked their first date, after all.

  Owen arrived promptly at her doorstep at eleven o’clock that Sunday, as he’d promised when he’d brought her home from the Hamilton. He was as handsome as always, and Jane invited him in, then sat him at the kitchen table with a glass of water. “I hope you didn’t make any grand plans,” she said. She felt confident, beautiful even—it was her first premeditated meeting with Owen, and she’d been up since six getting ready. Her hair was freshly curled, her girdle and slip were washed. Her fingernails were a gleaming red.

  “Only the grandest plans for you,” Owen said.

  “Can it wait?” Jane asked. “My friend Flossie is the organizer for the FBI’s annual picnic, and I promised—”

  Owen choked on his water.

  “Well, goodness! Are you all right?” Jane asked as he wiped his mouth, eyes darting around the room.

  “Quite.” Owen coughed again. “Quite all right.”

  “Anyway,” Jane said. “Don’t tell me a game of baseball doesn’t sound lovely.”

  Owen took a deep breath and cleared his throat again. He stroked his chin, his eyes now resting on a high corner of the room, above the stove.

  Jane was struck with horror as she realized why he was hesitating. His toes. Owen couldn’t run. How could she have been so stupid?

  “Jane,” Owen said.

  “Oh, Owen. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, Jane, it’s . . .” He put his elbows on the table and began to massage his temples.

  “We don’t have to stay long. We can make an excuse and—”

  “Jane, I can’t go to the picnic because . . .” He looked at the ceiling. “Because my fiancée will be there.”

  The tips of Jane’s ears went cold, the frost wrapping across her forehead and on around the back, squeezing her head like a vice. She must have misheard him. He could not have sa
id what it sounded like he said.

  “Your fiancée . . . ?” Stars twinkled in the corners of her vision, and she had the sudden sensation of staring at the horizon at sunset. She’d gone to bed with him. Not only unmarried, but him engaged. The darkness sank a bit lower and Jane was sinking now, too.

  “Jane!” Owen shouted, jumping from his chair and catching her before she hit the ground. The light returned with a blinding flash.

  “Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me,” Jane hissed, prying herself from his embrace. She wobbled a bit, standing, and steadied herself on the table.

  “I’m sorry.” Owen sat down again. “I suppose I thought you knew. Or had an idea, in any case.”

  Jane threw her freshly manicured hands in the air. “Why on earth would you think that?” Because a girl with any sense would have known.

  “Hell, Jane. Don’t snap your cap.”

  “Snap my cap? I’ll snap something!”

  “Jane,” Owen said in a low voice, glancing toward Mr. Plunkett’s curtained room. “I thought you were going steady with someone, too. Or at least that you weren’t that serious.”

  “And whatever gave you that idea? Our time together in your room?” She’d given herself so freely; of course she’d come across as a floozy.

  “The pins in your pocketbook,” Owen said. “I saw them when you got your lipstick.”

  “That was Ding’s pocketbook!” Jane shouted. “Those are Ding’s dad-blamed pins.”

  “Oh. Well. I wasn’t trying to jerk you around. Listen. I know you’re a good kid.”

  Jane thought the bobby pins might pop right off her scalp.

  “I can’t believe you snookered me into this. How many other girls?” Jane asked. “Since the war started. How many other girls?”

  “You’re really going to put me through the wringer?”

  Jane laughed coldly. She was already putting herself through worse. She was the Government Girl they wrote about in the paper. Maybe she should have had a curfew. She pictured her mother busying herself with housework and trying not to worry over her children, her brothers saving the world, and her, here, disappointing everyone.