A Simple Thing (16 page)

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and was gone down the path before she could say another word.

Jim treasured the beads, and stored them in a box he lined with wool that Claire gave him from her sheep. Betty could see his confidence grow as he became more and more proficient in the water, as he added another unique head bead to the box each week. Barefoot didn't say much, so every compliment that came from his lips was hard earned and genuine, and Jim knew it. By early August, when the last lesson was finished, her son looked taller to Betty.

She invited Barefoot to dinner as a thank-you. She invited Claire and Don and their boys, too, but that afternoon Stephen fell and broke his arm, and Claire and Don had to take him over to Friday Harbor to get it set. Betty offered to take Graham, their younger son, for the night. She debated with herself for a moment about the propriety of dining alone with Barefoot and the two little boys, but then if she really cared about what was proper, she wouldn't be living on Sounder and married to a serial philanderer.

Betty didn't much like to cook, but the fruit and vegetables were fresh, and she killed a chicken, cut it up, marinated it in cider vinegar, lime juice, and brown sugar, and grilled it until it was crisp and tender. Barefoot brought a bottle of homemade dandelion wine. Jim and Graham played some game in the meadow that involved running like mad from one end to the other carrying various “treasures”—a pail of water, an egg on a spoon. They tried to run carrying a protesting chicken, but Betty stopped them. By dusk, which came now at nine, they were run out, and she put them to bed in Jim's room and went to wash up.

Barefoot came in and saw her standing at the sink and made a disgusted clicking sound with his tongue.

“What?” she said, turning to face him.

“You can't enjoy a fine meal and then just sit?” he said. “Those same dishes will still be there in the morning, but the rising moon won't be.”

“There'll be two hungry boys here in the morning, too,” she said. “And chickens to feed and goats to milk.”

Barefoot shrugged. “You have a point.”

An idiotic one, but a point,
Betty thought. She dropped the dishrag and walked outside.

Barefoot followed, and they stood on the porch for a minute, watching the sky fade from pale blue to deep blue, the first faint twinkling of stars. She felt an odd loneliness. Jim's swimming lessons were over; Barefoot was leaving in two weeks for a six-month trip to the Middle East. Bill would be home for only four weeks before leaving again. She shivered.

“I'm cold,” she said. “I'm going inside.”

Barefoot came in with her. “It was a fine meal,” he said. “Thank you. I can do the washing up.”

“You're welcome,” she said. “Don't worry about the dishes. It's not much.” She held out her hand. “I can't thank you enough for the swimming lessons. But more, for all you did for Jim's confidence. You've been very good to him.”

“I was as good to him as he deserved,” Barefoot said.

He didn't take her outstretched hand, and she dropped it to her side. Barefoot's eyes burned into her.

“God, you're a sexy woman,” Barefoot said. “I'd like to bed you now.”

She was startled and embarrassed by his directness, and by her body's clear response to his words.

“What makes you think I'd go to bed with you?” Betty said.

“What makes you think you'd have a choice?” Barefoot said.

She wasn't afraid of him. Barefoot was many things but not cruel, and she knew he would never touch her without her consent. But his raw desire for her, and his boldness, excited her. Bill was in Alaska; Bill had cheated on her more times than she could count. Why shouldn't she have that, too, someone to hold her and satisfy her and still some of her loneliness?

“If you were my wife,” Barefoot said. “I sure as hell wouldn't leave you alone for nine months a year.”

“I'm not your wife,” Betty said.

Barefoot placed his hands on her hips and pulled her toward him. Betty leaned back away from him and looked straight into his eyes.

“I'm not a cheater,” she said. “I won't do this.”

Barefoot smiled at her. “I'm not a cheater, either,” he said. “I'm also not a monogamist. Which is why, unlike your husband, I chose not to get married.”

“You son of a bitch!” Betty said, pulling away. “You don't know anything about my husband. How dare you judge him?”

She was angry now, and could feel it rise in her, thick and hot. She glared at Barefoot, and he smiled at her, bemused, as though enjoying her rage and confusion. Something in her snapped, and she reached out and slapped him across the face.

The blow caught him straight on the side of his face. His hands shot up and he grabbed both her wrists.

She stood looking at him, at the red mark of her hand on his cheek, breathing hard. She wanted to slap him again; she wanted to grab his fierce head between her hands and kiss him, hard, and pull his body inside hers. She was so torn between anger and desire that she couldn't think clearly.

Barefoot waited a few minutes, his hands around her wrists, until her breathing slowed and her body relaxed.

“I'm sorry if I insulted Bill,” Barefoot said at last. “I was out of line. I've long admired you, Elizabeth, and hate to see how hard you work with so little reward. You've got a fine son, and I'm sure that's reward in itself, but to my mind you deserve more.”

He let go of her and stepped back, out of range in case she came at him again.

“I won't suggest such intimacies again,” he said.

“I'm sorry I slapped you,” she said.

Barefoot made a mock bow. “Forgiven,” he said.

He bent over and picked up his bandanna, which had fallen to the floor. He stuffed it in his pocket, and then turned to her.

“I've enjoyed the swimming lessons,” he said. “Jim's a fine boy.”

Barefoot didn't touch her again that summer, or mention the incident again. But again and again she could feel his hands on her wrists, see the intensity in his blue eyes, hear the low, throaty growl of his voice saying, “You deserve more.”

She didn't sleep well that summer. And even once Bill came home, Barefoot and his goddamned blue bandanna still haunted her dreams.

Chapter 16

Susannah 2011

Jim poured three fingers of scotch into each of the glasses on the kitchen table and handed one to Susannah.

“Let's sit on the porch,” he said.

Susannah took the drink and followed Jim out onto the small back porch of the white cottage and sat down in one of the faded green rockers. It was almost six, and dark already. She could see the sky deepening from blue to indigo to black above the silhouettes of the fir trees, and a few early stars. She took a deep breath. She still had to talk to Katie, who was in her room, about her poem, but Jim had convinced her to calm down and have a drink first.

“Let me put your mind at ease,” Jim said, settling into the chair across from hers. “I do not think Katie is smoking pot. She wrote that poem to unnerve you.”

“You don't know that,” Susannah said. “And what about Hood? Your mother told me he was growing pot last summer.”

“Susannah, Hood is not growing pot or smoking pot. That thing with Ralph Flanagan was a one-time deal.”

“But how can you be sure?” Susannah said.

“I can't,” Jim said. “But I trust my kid. He tells me he's not doing it, I believe him. And honestly, Hood doesn't have that much free time. He and Baker have work to do on the farm every day, in addition to homework. Hard to imagine he's doing all that and getting stoned.”

“I know a lot of people don't think pot is a big deal,” Susannah said. “But it's like alcohol: My dad always thought he had his drinking under control. He had
no
idea. I worry that Katie could have inherited some tendency for abusing alcohol or drugs.”

Jim leveled a steady look at her. “As far as
I
can tell—as her teacher in a very small school, and as your neighbor,
and
as the father of her closest friends here—Katie is not abusing anything or anyone, except you. That poem was Katie's ‘screw you,' her way of letting you know that even though you brought her here, you still can't control her.”

Susannah sighed. “I know.” She took a slow sip of her drink. She never drank scotch, and it made her cough. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “But there has to be some consequence, even if it was just a poem. It wasn't an appropriate thing to read to a roomful of children.”

“I agree.”

“I plan to ground her, but it's hard to have her here in the cottage with too much time on her hands. Maybe she needs her own job.”

“That's a good idea.”

“But where could I put her to work? Do you need more help on the farm?”

Jim shrugged. “Not really, especially not at this time of year. Ask Barefoot. He's got his greenhouse and his herb farm, and that boat he's renovating.”

“Barefoot?” Her voice was skeptical.

“Barefoot is a botanist. He grows a variety of herbs for medicinal purposes in his greenhouse. Yes, the DEA found two pot plants during the raid a few years ago. He may still be growing it,
as medicine
. But he would never, under any circumstances, give it to a child.” Jim's green eyes were serious. “I have known Barefoot Jacobsen my entire life.”

“All right,” Susannah said. But the knot of worry in her chest wouldn't go away.

Jim was quiet a moment, then leaned forward in his chair to look her in the face. “Listen, you're not immune from problems here. Kids may not have the same opportunities to get into trouble that they do in Virginia, but still, I know two girls in Friday Harbor who got pregnant at sixteen. Kids drink and get in boats. A boy over on Orcas got drunk and fell overboard and drowned last year.”

“That's terrible.” Susannah didn't want to think about the boy's family or whoever might have been with him on the boat, watching for his head to break the surface, waiting for the normal, the familiar, before realizing nothing would ever be normal again. “Bad things happen everywhere, I know.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sky. “What are you so afraid of?” Jim said at last. His voice was gentle. “I mean with Katie and Quinn.”

Susannah closed her eyes. She could smell the smoke wafting from the chimney, the loamy scent of the woods. She was comfortable with Jim. He clearly liked her, and understood her kids weren't perfect and didn't judge her. He and Fiona were working out some kinks in their own marriage, just as she was with Matt—something he'd alluded to but not discussed. She trusted him.

“My sister died because of me,” she said at last, in a low voice. “It was my fault.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. But that's why I have to do everything I can to protect my kids. I'm afraid something awful will happen again, on my watch.”

Jim let out a long breath, and his breath turned to fog in the cold evening air. “You said you came here because you had to make a change,” he said. “Maybe this is the thing you need to change.”

Susannah's laugh was bitter. “I can't bring Janie back.”

“No,” Jim said. “But maybe you can let her go.” He paused a minute. “What I mean is—and I say this as your friend, not as a criticism—even
if
your sister's death was ‘your fault,' as you put it, it doesn't mean you deserve to be ill-treated by your daughter, or by anyone.”

Susannah was quiet. And she was still quiet, thinking, long after they'd said their good-byes and Jim had gone home.

 

Later that night, after dinner, Susannah stood next to Katie at the sink, drying dishes while Katie washed them. Quinn had walked over to the Pavalaks' to find Baker, who was helping him with math.

“I'm not smoking pot, Mom,” Katie said, her eyes on the sink. “I never have, okay? I was bored, and we had this assignment, and I thought it would be cool to take a really formal, old-fashioned thing like an ode but make it about something totally informal and present-day, like smoking pot.”

“Your poem was full of some pretty vivid details for someone who's never tried marijuana,” Susannah said. She put down the plate she was holding and turned to face her daughter. “I don't know what half of it was about. Captain Blue?”

“It's a variety of pot. I read about it in the
New Yorker
. Online.”

“Thrilled as I am with your Internet research skills, I still can't believe you'd read a poem about the joys of marijuana to a roomful of
children,
including your little brother. You're grounded for a week. And I talked to Jim. He's suspending you for two days.”

“I'm suspended?” Katie dropped the dishrag in the soapy sink and turned to look at her mother.

“The public school system has a low tolerance for behaviors that ‘disrupt the educational process,' as he put it.”

Katie was incredulous. “I'm suspended because
I wrote a poem
?”

“The kids are going to ask what your poem was about. I'm sure several of them figured it out. They'll tell the littler kids. Like it or not, as an eighth grader and one of the oldest students at a very small school, you're a role model.”

Katie turned back to face the sink. “Okay,” she said. Katie picked up a sponge and began to scrub the cast-iron skillet, with her head tilted forward so her hair fell and hid her face. At one point, Susannah leaned in toward her just a little and started to say something, but Katie shook her head. When she finished washing the skillet, she handed it to Susannah to dry. She didn't look at her. Finally she said, “I'm sorry, okay?”

“Okay,” Susannah said. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She put down the skillet. “Katie, I want you to be happy. I brought you here to keep you safe, not to punish you.”

“I know.”

Katie looked uncomfortable.

“Listen, I'm proud of what a great writer you are. Jim was telling me about some essay you wrote, about Steinbeck. I'd love to see it.”

“Oh, God. I don't want to show it to you.”

“Really?”

“Maybe some other time.”

“All right. You know what else?” Susannah looked at her daughter. “Thanks for telling Jim about my art. It was a lot of fun for me to do those posters.”

Katie shrugged. She draped the dishrag over one of the towel bars on the side of the wood stove to dry. “I'm going to my room to do homework, I guess, since I'm
grounded
and can't go to Hood's.”

She paused, her hand on the door to the utility room. “The posters turned out pretty good,” she said. “You should do more art.”

“Thank you,” Susannah said. She was pleased by Katie's praise. “I thought—”

But Katie opened the door and closed it behind her before Susannah could finish her sentence.

 

Early the next morning Susannah drove over the rutted roads up to Crane's Point. She found Barefoot in the greenhouse, cutting flower heads from chamomile plants. Toby, who lay on the floor by his master's feet, stood up and wagged his tail in a furious rhythm when she walked in.

“Morning,” Barefoot said, although he didn't pause in his work. Susannah watched him a few minutes in silence.

“What do you do with the chamomile?”

“Lots of things.”

“Like?”

“Brew it into a tea for colic and indigestion, and nerves. Grind it into a paste for burns and rashes. Brew it in the bath for hemorrhoids.”

He put his clippers down on the wooden table and looked at her.

“You drove up here at seven-thirty in the morning to talk about chamomile?”

“No,” Susannah said. “Listen, Katie needs something to do. I was wondering if maybe she could help you restore the boat up here, work for you on a regular basis.”

Barefoot's eyebrows rose.

“Not for money,” Susannah said quickly. “I'd consider it a favor. You could teach her how to do the work you need to finish up the boat; it would occupy her time and she'd learn some new skills. And it might help you get the boat done faster.”

“Hmm.” Barefoot picked up the clippers and began again to clip the chamomile's little white flowers, dropping them into a stainless steel bowl on the table. His hands were steady and sure, in spite of fingers swollen with arthritis.

“Why would she want to do it?” he said.

“She won't,” Susannah said. “But it will be good for her. In the end, I think she will want to do it. She likes learning new things; she likes being good at things.”

“She's got some attitude,” he said.

“She's not a bad kid,” Susannah said. “She's just”—she searched for the word—“curious, and adventure-craving, if that makes sense. She needs to be doing something all the time or she's bored, and that's when she gets into trouble.”
Oh, my God
.
I sound like a mother in Tilton
. Those parents with the crazy round-the-clock sports and activity schedules were just like her, trying to keep their kids busy, productive, safe. “Work will be good for her. Katie's had a very privileged life so far, and I'd like to open her mind a little. She has such a sense of entitlement.”

“Born on third base and thinks she hit a triple,” Barefoot said.

“Exactly.”

“All right. Bring her by this afternoon around four. But just on the boat; I don't want her near my plants.”

I don't want her near your plants
. “I have to ask,” Susannah said. “I heard about the DEA raid.”

Barefoot stared at her from under wiry eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I understand you were growing marijuana. Katie's been suspended because of that poem she wrote, the ode to marijuana. And I wondered—”

Barefoot scowled and pointed his clippers at her face. “Get out!”

“What?” Susannah stepped back.

“Get the hell off my property. You think I'd waste good cannabis on your goddamn brat of a daughter?”

“I—I'm sorry.”

“What I grow and what I do with it is my own damn business,” Barefoot said. “And I don't give anything I grow to
anyone,
unless I know what they're using it for. And I don't give herbs to children.”

“I apologize,” Susannah said.

Barefoot was silent. He turned from her and began to clip the chamomile again.

“Would you still consider letting her work for you? She could come right away. She's not at school today.”

Barefoot didn't look up. “Have her here after lunch, say at one. I'll get her started. She can do the refinishing work inside the cabin, stripping and sanding, some woodworking. I'll show her how to use the tools. She can come a couple days a week after school, too.”

“One o'clock,” Susannah said. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet. I might fire her by one fifteen.”