Dig Too Deep (9 page)

Sixteen

I stare across the valley until I'm sure Dobber's gone, then hike down the trail myself. Granny's sitting in her chair on the porch, wrapped in her fleece, and … GAH! Smoking.

“What the hell are you doing? For God's sake, your lungs are bleeding.”

“My lungs ain't bleeding. That's just some red guck.” But she stubs the cigarette out on the porch railing. Sparks fall to the ground and dust her dirty white tennis shoes with ashes.

“Are you going somewhere?” I ask.

“Thought I'd take me a walk. It's such a glorious day … be a shame to waste it setting inside.”

Granny and I used to walk all over the farm, all sixty-three acres. There are corners of it I haven't seen in years. “Mind if I come with you?”

“I'd be pleased for the company, sugarplum, but ain't you got a date to get ready for?”

“Change of plans,” I say. “Cole's family is having some together time tonight.” Though after Dobber's reaction when I mentioned Cole's name, I'm wondering if there's more to that story.

“Together time, huh?” Granny struggles out of the chair and lays the fleece across the rail. “That Quentin sure is a nice boy.”

“Who?”

“I ain't see'd him in a few years. He surely got big.”

I realize Quentin must be Dobber's first name. How weird I've never heard it before. Even the teachers call him Dobber.

“He's nice,” I say, remembering how Cole insisted I not mention that first party being at the Dobbers' house. Now, I'm wondering why. “Do you know his dad?”

“I do. Been ages since I see'd him though.” Granny takes my arm and we start down the driveway. Silkie and Beethoven take off ahead of us, panting and chasing noises in the woods. Old Goldie trails along behind us, nudging our hands for the occasional scratch. “They used to come to church,” says Granny. “The Dobbers. That was before she went off.”

“She?”

“Quentin's mama.”

“Oh. I thought his mom died. She just left?”

“Ran off. Or got sent away.” Granny shakes her head. “There was two schools of thought on that.”

“Sent away by who?”

“The sorry piece of crap she was having an affair with. Robert Peabody.”

I stop in the middle of the drive. “She was having an—”

“I just said that, didn't I?” Granny pulls me along. “One morning, she took Quentin to day care and just never came back. There was a rumor she ran off to be with some builder man in Louisville. But I don't believe that myself.”

“What do you think?”

“I believe she got herself knocked up with a little baby mine boss.”

Granny has her head bent close to me, like she's telling FBI secrets instead of wagering on small town history. “When Peabody found out, I'm thinking he run her out of town. Last I heard, she was living over in Clay County. Had a daughter couple years younger'n you.”

“Did she at least keep in touch with Dobber? I mean, she's his mom.”

“Not such that I know of. I expect Peabody warned her off keeping any ties back here. He was married his own self. Wouldn't want that story getting back to his wife.”

“Poor Dobber.” If Granny's right, Peabody took away both his parents.

Just past the haunted birdhouses, we turn left into the woods. I vaguely remember this trail winding down to the creek and Granddaddy's secret crawdad hole. He paid me a dime for each one I caught and a quarter if I ate one.

“Granddaddy got a deal,” I say. “I bought some crawdads at our fancy food market once, and they were fifteen dollars a pound.”

Granny laughs. “Maybe you oughta start up a export business!”

But I'm thinking about something else. “Or maybe I'll just catch some for dinner.” My mouth is already watering. Why haven't I thought of this before? “I could boil them with rice, Old Bay, and some wild onion.”

“Oh my, that does sound like a de-light!”

My stomach is growling like crazy. “Wait right here,” I say. “I'll go get the buckets.”

I run back to the house and rummage around in the shed until I find two old metal pails, one large, one small, and some gardening gloves. It's been a while since I fished for crawdads and the idea of grabbing them barehanded creeps me out. I toss the gloves into the buckets and head back to where Granny waits in the woods. She's leaning on the old split-rail fence when I get there.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I'm just waitin' on you, slowpoke. What took you so long?”

“Your shed's a disorganized mess, that's what.” I shake the buckets at her. “Let's go catch us some dinner.”

We follow the overgrown path toward the sound of a rippling creek. It gets damper and greener the closer we get. Around the last turn, a huge boulder appears and below it, a small, sandy beach. “This is it,” I say. “Granddaddy's secret crawdad hole.” I'm more excited about these crawdads than I was about the regional volleyball tournament last year.

“I declare, it looks just the same as I remember it.”

It does, mostly. Except the water's really muddy and there's some weird foam caught in the rocks on the far side. Somebody must've soaped up in the creek, upstream.

“You see any crawdads in there, Libby?”

“I can't see anything.” I kick my shoes off and roll up my jeans. “But they're there, all right. And I'm going to find them.”

Goldie stretches out on the sand. The other two dogs are long gone, chasing squirrels. Granny sits down on a log in the sun, and I feel like I'm ten years old again.

“Beware, creatures of underwater land. I am the crawdad slayer. Prepare to be captured!”

“You get 'em, sugarplum.”

I wade into the water with the small bucket, wearing the garden gloves. “God, it's freezing!” Avoiding the weird, foamy stuff, I creep upstream to where the creek narrows. The water runs faster here. I start at the edges, where it's shallower. Since I can't really see the bottom, I just scoop up a pail full of creek bottom as fast as I can. The first couple times, I just turn up mud. But as I pick up the third one, I see something darting around in my bucket. I reach in and feel around until I pin something wiggly against the side of the pail. A nice, big crawdad.

“Woo-hoo!” I grab it below the front claws and show it to Granny.

“Oh, that's a nice one, Liberty.” She holds out the larger bucket. “He'll be good eatin'!”

“Heck yeah, he will.” His shell clatters as I drop him in. “Put some water in there so he can breathe.”

“I know what to do with a crawdad. You just go on and catch us some more.”

I wade back upstream and try again. There are tons of crawdads in the creek, more than I've ever seen. Maybe people don't fish for them anymore. I definitely can't imagine Ashleigh eating one.

“We're gonna have us a veritable feast, darling!” Granny says, looking into her pail where four fat crustaceans are scrabbling around. I'm thinking about how good the claw meat will taste drenched in butter. But as I hand the fifth one to Granny, I notice something. Something not right.

I freeze, the crawdad hovering over the mouth of the bucket.

“What's wrong?” Granny says. “Drop it in.”

“Granny.” My watering mouth is now trying not to gag. “Look. His head.”

Really, that isn't grammatically correct. Because there isn't just one head. There are two. A Siamese twin crawdad. Like the fish I saw pictures of on the
End Mountaintop Removal Mining
website. Two heads. Two tails. Too many fins. Too many eyes.

Mutants.

I fling the crawdad across the creek and run onto the beach, pulling the garden gloves off and scrubbing my hands on my jeans. “Gross.”

Granny stares into the bucket. “These fellers look all right. Reckon they're safe to eat?”

“Probably not. They mutate because the water is polluted. Even the normal ones are bad.” I take the bucket and dump our dinner back into the creek.

Granny sighs. “That's a right shame. I had a awful hankering for a crawdad boil. Reckon we can have some other kinda feast?”

I sit on the wet sand, staring at the creek. My stomach is gnawing on itself and I don't have the heart to tell it, or Granny, there's nothing for dinner but plain rice.

Maybe that one crawdad was just a freak. Maybe everything else is okay. Maybe if I caught a fish—

The bucket crashes against the boulder behind me and I look up to see Granny, red-faced and shaking. “He ruint it,” she says. “Ruint our farm. Ever' blessed bit of it.”

Tears roll down her cheeks. I jump up and put my arms around her. “It's okay, Granny. We'll be okay.”

But she isn't listening to me. She's sobbing. I hold her tighter, squeezing her together, because it feels like she's coming apart. She's the strongest person I know, but I can feel her breaking. And no matter how tight I hold her, she just keeps crying and saying the same words over and over.

“Goddam Peabody.”

Seventeen

Granny goes straight to bed when we get back to the house and falls right to sleep. I spend the afternoon cleaning—mopping up the dogs' muddy footprints in the kitchen and wiping away the dust that somehow gets in even when the windows are closed. Another benefit of being downwind of a mountaintop removal mine. I do a load of laundry and, despite the obscene amount of bleach I add, the whites all come out slightly peach colored. Again.

Around six, I dump a can of tomato soup into a pan and heat it up. After my dreams of a crawdad feast, I just can't face plain rice. Not that tomato soup is any sort of substitute for sweet, crabby crawdad meat dipped in garlic butter, with some crusty bread …

Sigh.

I fix a tray for Granny with crackers and the last Mountain Dew as a treat. I'm just about to take it in to her when my phone rings. Maybe Cole got done with family stuff early. That might salvage the night from total crapitude.

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is Dr. Lang. From the clinic?”

My heart leaps into my throat and I choke out, “Yes?”

“I came into the office to pick up some work and found the results of Mrs. Briscoe's x-rays had been faxed. Is this … Are you her granddaughter?”

“Yes. Liberty.” I want so badly to know what those results say, but I'm also afraid to ask because the answer could change our lives.

“I'd like you to bring your grandmother in to talk about the results.”

“Can't you just tell us over the phone?”

“No, it would be better if you came in. I have some time Monday afternoon. About five thirty?”

If it were good news, he'd let us know, right? But maybe it's just doctor rules that keep him from saying. I tell myself it means nothing that we have to go in. “Sure. Five thirty's fine.” But I can barely hear my voice over the pounding in my head.

“I'll have the nurse put you on the appointment calendar.”

“Okay. Thanks, Doctor.” But he's gone.

The tray rattles and tips in my shaky hands as I take Granny her dinner. I decide not to tell her about the doctor's call until Monday. There's no sense in both of us worrying all weekend long.

Over breakfast Monday, I break the news.

She pauses in the stirring of her tea. “Why can't he just tell us on the phone?” she asks.

“I don't know, but he won't.”

She stares into her mug for a few seconds, not moving. “He's trying to milk us for another office fee.”

I doubt that's the case. “I bet you're right.” Grabbing my books, I hug her and say, “Have a good day.”

“You too, sugarplum. Drive careful.”

Granny didn't need the car today, so I'm driving in. Saves me the two-hour tour of Plurd County after school. I scoot out the door without letting the dogs escape, toss my backpack into the back, and drive into town.

The morning is cool, but the sun is bright and the sky is cloudless. If the weather stays like this, it'll be perfect weather for Cole's baseball game Thursday. I'm thinking about what to wear as I pull into the parking lot and totally depressing myself. Half the things I brought are so stained from the orange water, I can't wear them. The other half I've worn so often I'm sick of them. Unfortunately, there's no money in our budget for clothes, and if there were, it'd go toward some underwear for Granny. She's flying commando most days.

Cole and Dobber are leaning against Cole's car. They look to be in a serious conversation, but Cole smiles when he sees me. I park next to them and lock up the car.

“Mornin', sunshine.” Cole wraps his arms around me and kisses me hello.

“Hi, you. Hi, Dobber.”

Dobber holds out his fist. “New girl.”

I bump it with my own. “Are you ever going to stop calling me that? I'm not new anymore.”

“You seen anybody else newer?” His smile isn't at the full hundred watts this morning.

“So that's it?” I say. “I'm the new girl until somebody else comes along?”

“Somethin' like that.”

Cole takes my backpack and slings it onto his shoulder. “I missed you this weekend.” The three of us start walking toward the side entrance, Cole and I holding hands.

“Missed you too,” I say. “How was family night?”

“Miserable. Hours of Monopoly. Mom got mad at Dad for charging her rent after she cut him a deal. They ended up not speaking—”

“I gotta go,” Dobber says. He veers off toward the gym.

“That was abrupt,” I say. “What's up?”

“Nothin'. He prob'ly just knew I was going to do this.” Cole wraps his arm around me and pulls me in for a kiss. He's all soap and orange Tic Tacs. His other hand rests against my ribs, and I remember the touch of his bare skin against mine. I feel dizzy and out of breath and I'm wishing there was a building or a tree or something to lean against because I'm having trouble remembering which way is up.

“Meet me after school?” Cole whispers.

“I can't,” I groan. “I have to take Granny to the doctor.”

His arms loosen. “You're killin' me.” He grins and pulls me along, up the steps.

“Tomorrow?”

“Can't,” he says. “I got some work.” I notice he doesn't add “at the mine.”

We've been careful to avoid the subject completely.

“Bummer.” It probably shouldn't bug me so much that he works for Peabody, but it does, more and more lately. It's not just that he doubts the research I've turned up. He refuses to even look at it. That blind belief in the almighty Robert Peabody is über-creepy. “How about after work?”

“Maybe.” The bell rings and he kisses me quick. “If you're nice.”

“I can be nice.” I'm thinking of all the nice things I'd like to do with him, some things I've never done before, and my cheeks feel hot.

“I bet you can.” He winks and disappears into his class. I turn into first period, brain foggy from the steam rolling off my thoughts, and run straight into Ashleigh. Our elbows smash together and her books fall to the floor.

Instead of yelling at me, she smiles. Not in a nice way—more like she's imagining me being stuck with pins. “Nice weekend?”

“Um … okay.” Why is she talking to me?

“Hm.” She picks up her books and pushes past me. “Interesting.”

“Why?” I say to her back. Maybe it's my imagination, but she seems like she's in an awfully good mood. That worries me. As if I didn't already have enough to worry about.

The waiting room is just as crowded as the last time, with the same battered magazines. We don't wait long. Dr. Lang calls us just a few minutes after five thirty. Right away, I can tell by his face the news isn't good.

“The results of your x-rays, Mrs. Briscoe, show a number of masses in your lungs.”

Granny smashes her lips together.

“Tumors?” I ask.

Dr. Lang looks at me and nods.

I reach for Granny's hand. It's balled into a fist in her lap. “Are you sure it's cancer?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Words like
radiation
and
chemotherapy
run through my head. “Okay then. What do we do?”

“Well …” He sits down on his little rolling stool. “We could try to attempt treatment. But I'm afraid with this type of cancer the rate of success is very slim. And the treatments are so hard on the body, I'm not sure it's worth it.”

“So …” I raise my shoulders.

“You have to understand, this cancer has been growing for some time.”

“Then take it out,” I say. “Get rid of it and do chemotherapy or whatever.”

“Surgery isn't really an option. There isn't one tumor, but lots of little ones, spread all through the lung tissue.”

“What
are
our options then?”

“Let's back up a little.” Dr. Lang rubs at the dark circles under his eyes. “Your grandmother has what we call stage four lymphoma.”

“How many stages are there?”

For the first time, he can't look me in the eye. “Four.”

A tremor runs through Granny. She hasn't said anything since we sat down. I put my arm around her, wishing there were somebody else here. I feel like I'm falling, literally falling, down a deep hole and there's nothing to grab on to. Granny sits rigid, barely breathing.

“What do we do?” I ask.

He hands me a sheet of paper from his notebook. “Contact information for hospice.”

“Hopsice? But don't they come in when people are …”

“She could have months,” he says to me. “Or possibly just weeks.”

I choke. Weeks.
Weeks!
A week is no time. She could be dead before my next report card. I think I'm holding Granny, but I can hardly tell. My whole body is numb and buzzing. Granny must be crying because Dr. Lang hands her a box of tissues. The lameness of that strikes me as ridiculously funny. She's dying and all medical science can do is help her wipe her nose.

I fold the hospice information and tuck it into my pocket. I'm not ready to make decisions about my grandmother's life or death. But it appears she isn't either. She's staring mutely at the nervous system chart on the wall, tears seeping into the wrinkles on her face.

Dr. Lang looks at me and says, “Call them right away. I know they have a lot of patients in your area so they may have to work you in.”

I think of Ashleigh's granddad. And Dobber's dad. And all the people on the church sick list. The two-headed crawdad. The foam in the creek. The orange water in the sink. And I begin to wonder what's going on in my own lungs. Are the little tumors starting already?

Granny's settled back into what's become her mantra the past two days. “Goddam Peabody.” Her voice is clogged with tears.

The doctor stares at the floor, not knowing what to do for us.

I start to shake … with fear or grief or rage, maybe all three. In a perfect world, I'd have a parent or two to deal with this. But my world's far from perfect and my one parent went AWOL, taking all my money and, with it, our only chance to escape this fucking toxic mountain. My fight-or-flight mechanism tries to kick in, but we can't afford to run, and as much as I'd love to kick somebody's ass right now, I can't battle Granny's cancer. There's no one to fight.

“Goddam Peabody,” says Granny.

Then again … maybe there is.