Wildcat Fireflies (18 page)

“There, surrounded by fireflies, lay the young boy sound asleep. He’d pulled his furs off to make a pillow; his face was covered with berry juice, his fingers sticky with
honey. He’d clearly eaten his fill of the food he could reach, but one of his legs was stuck deep in the earth, so tangled in an old, rotted stump that he’d been unable to remove it.”

My stomach clenched. I knew what tangled legs looked like. But I prayed this story had a better ending than mine.

“The father and the warrior ate their fill, drank from the river until their thirst was quenched. While the child slept, they dug out the earth around his leg, the dirt gifting them with rabbits, beavers, and possums hibernating in that old tree. They piled the animals on their sledge to take back to the fort for the others to eat. Finally, they pulled the child’s leg from the log. He was unhurt.

“They picked berries and persimmons, dug onions and roots, harvested honey and wild corn, and added those to their sled. The fireflies waited, keeping the earth warm and the light blazing until the men could carry no more. By then, the snowstorm outside of their bubble had stopped, the sun rose in the east, and the men easily saw their trail back toward their home and Fort Ouiatenon.

“One by one, the fireflies disappeared until it was as if they’d never existed. The Wabash froze again, and the vines and trees and earth disappeared back under the blanket of winter.”

“I love this story.” Faye sighed. “Such a happy one.”

Sidika grinned at her. “Shall I finish?”

“Please,” I said, clearing my throat to get the word out.

“The trio arrived back at the fort, where another
mother and child had starved to death in the night and the mood was desperate and somber. They unloaded the food alongside the tables. The lieutenant sent the warrior to bring his people to feast with them, because they, too, were suffering from the long, brutal winter.

“The first Americans came bringing wood and dried animal dung for bonfires. The settlers pulled out their instruments; there was singing, dancing, and rejoicing. The flow of food never ended. For three days and three nights, the stacks of food among the tables never diminished. The more they shared, the more food appeared. Word spread and more people arrived looking for their own miracle. Then, on the third day, the sun rose high in the sky and warmed the earth, clearing away the ice and snow from around the fort. The food lasted another month, slowly disappearing until spring was in full swing and the settlers didn’t need it anymore.

“When questioned, the boy said he’d seen a firefly and followed it, thinking it was his mother calling to him.”

Gus broke in. “So every year we Hoosiers from around the state, from all kinds of backgrounds, gather at the fort and along the banks of the Wabash to feast and rejoice at the nearing of spring. We burn big bonfires to chase away the darkness and welcome in the light. There’s eating and drinking and whatnot. People dress in costume and reenact the search for the boy, and children dress as fireflies.” He shook his head with regret. “Most people don’t even know why we’re there. Not really.”

“Don’t sound bitter, honey.” Faye patted his hand.

“History teaches us things about ourselves, but you have to listen for the lessons. You have to be really still to hear the whispers.”

My mind was stuck back on the little boy and whatever this destiny of his was. “What was his destiny? Just to feed all the people?”

Sidika answered. “That, and he grew up to advocate in the fledging American government for the rights of the indigenous people. He purchased land so his friends had a place to live out their lives their own way. He organized and spoke about tolerance and respect. He signed the Declaration of Independence and then traveled to France to help in their revolution. He did many great things that he’s very well known for, but that winter he was simply the boy who’d followed his mother’s soul in the firefly.”

Gus added, “So we remember him as such.”

“Animals are spectacular creatures,” Rumi declared.

“I like it.” I saw the story play out as a movie in my mind.

Tens asked, “When is the Feast?”

“Soon, coming right up. I sell my glass there. Beads, vases, delicate butterflies and fireflies, and the Spirit Stones, of course. It’s a good way to meet all kinds of people. Blacksmiths and history nuts, plus there’s a big concert on the final night.
Dolce vita.
”

“Sounds lovely. Of course we’ll have to go.” I knew Tens was thinking the same thing.

“Who’d like dessert?” Rumi stood.

“Please.” Tens raised his hand and made the table laugh.

“Oh, to be young again.” Gus smiled at me.

“Speak for yourself. My wisdom is ageless.” With a grin, Faye lightly swatted him.

“Yes, but your metabolism isn’t.”

I’
ll run away
. Before my sixteenth birthday I could leave. Pack my stuff. Head south and sleep on the beach. Get jobs cleaning. Cooking.

And leave the kids? Leave Bodie and Nicole to suffer this alone? Leave whatever kids might show up between now and February tenth?

I focused my attention on the creek ahead of me. The water crept by, muddy brown like hot chocolate. The trees
were giant stacks of chopsticks and toothpicks reaching for spring. Noses of turtles broke the surface of the icy water. In the murky water, catfish seemed as big as the Loch Ness Monster itself. Damselflies flitted along the banks with cardinals, and scampering gray squirrels were mere shapes and illusions of movement.

I curled over my stomach.
Coward
. I wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave the kids behind. Couldn’t take them with me. I’d be reported for kidnapping. I’d end up in prison. Would it be worse than DG? Could it be? If I was honest with myself, odds were even that the roughest place for a juvenile had to be better than this. I was almost at the point where I was willing to try. Willing to risk and see. But then, I’d be stuck in that prison instead of this one, the kids would come right back here, and I’d never be able to help them. No kid had ever stayed at DG beyond their sixteenth birthday—why was I so set on being the first? I could barely look past this minute. The future overwhelmed and evaded me, like trying to find a particular salt molecule in the entire dark ocean.

No, I must stay
. Maybe I could convince Mistress to let me work here until I was eighteen. If I worked harder, promised more of me, somehow found more hours to slave, hid my injuries better. I was too afraid, too paralyzed to do more than stay and tell myself I didn’t care what happened next. Maybe if I repeated to myself that I didn’t care, said it enough, I’d start to believe it.

I pulled out the postcard Ms. Asura had given me. I’d tucked it into my shoe so Mistress wouldn’t find it.
Kirian
. I was thirteen when he’d left in the night, no goodbye, no kiss.
I’d thought he was my family, my friend, my boyfriend. And then he left me here. Occasionally, I got postcards like this one, passed through Ms. Asura.
Miss you. Working hard to save up for us. I love you, Kirian
.

Evening fell around me. I stole ten minutes out here while the kids finished eating and Mistress was still away. Nights were seasonably cold, with ice and frost, but the days were oddly warm—enough so I didn’t need to be in more than
shirtsleeves to sit outside. My thrift-store hand-me-downs had fewer threads than were ideal. We could scavenge anything from the belongings of those who left in body bags. By the time it was our turn, nothing of value remained. But I could at least squirrel away clothes that kids might sleep in, or play in, or layer on during the cold nights when Mistress refused to heat the attic and they all huddled in a pile. Tonight, I wore a purple wool cardigan. Mrs. Mahoney’s sweater had the faintest hint of lavender soap clinging to it, no matter the number of times I washed it. There was a time when I had sat with all the guests and listened to their stories and knew their names and histories.

I chewed on my cuticles. The sting and pinch as I peeled skin back made me feel something, which I desperately needed. My fingers looked as if I’d taken a cheese shredder to them. They bled. Often and profusely. I tried not to pick at them, I really did. But the blood reminded me I lived, at least for now, and the sting of disinfectant while I cleaned helped keep me awake. Not even NoDoz kept me going like pain.

I pulled off my shoes and socks and tucked my toes into the water and mud along the creek bed. My crooked and swollen toes quickly stiffened with cold and the rest of me was racked with a chill. Numbing.

I turned my head to rest it on my knees, so I was able to stare at DG behind me. The three stories of dormers and white columns gave it a stately if neglected appearance. Up close the paint was yellowed and chipped, far away it was harder to tell. Mistress would make the kids paint the house this summer.
I won’t be here to help
.

DG was the only home I’d ever really known. I didn’t remember anything before arriving here. Nothing solid. Just feelings and fuzzy dreams that I was fairly certain I made up to make my reality more bearable.

There was staff employed by Mistress to help with the guests, to clean, to repair, but mostly to keep an eye on us kids. Some of them were chasing their own American dreams, illegally and in the shadows, keeping their heads down to get paid. Not seeing us. Others filled the air with the scent of unprosecuted criminals—people for whom the system failed the rest of us. Of these, I made sure they were never left alone with a kid or a guest, but there was only so much I could control.

The few times an employee seemed to notice, to actually witness what happened here and worry for us, they stopped coming to work. I didn’t know what happened to them. They disappeared as quickly and mutely as they came.

But one woman, Miss Katie, asked me many questions, took photographs of bruises, told me things, things about why this wasn’t the way the world should be.
That not all places were like this. That the police would help us
. With wide eyes one evening before she left, she snuck me a scrap of paper with her cell-phone number on it and told me to call her any time, that if I needed to get out, she’d help me. She stopped coming in to work and when I called that number a week later I’m fairly certain Mistress was the one who answered.

People who cared didn’t care for long. This left us with people who didn’t speak English, and while their eyes worked fine, they were blinded by fear, or necessity, or something
else. Victims, prisoners, like the rest of us. No one was going to rescue us.

Kirian wasn’t going to ride in on a white horse and slay the dragon for me. No matter what his postcards might imply.

Bodie ran out to find me. “Juliet, she’s back. It’s bad.”

I grabbed my shoes and ran to the house, outdistancing Bodie. Mistress was home early. Had the kids finished eating the ravioli? Were the dishes cleaned?
Damn it, you’re an idiot, Juliet
.

I heard the screeching while I wiped the mud off my feet with hurried, clumsy fingers. Tracking dirt in would definitely draw my blood.

“Nice of you to join us, Missy,” Mistress accused.

“I told you she was bathing.” Nicole blinked, but didn’t look at me.
At least I know which lie to stick with
.

“Shut up, little girl. Bathing is a luxury she can do when her work is finished. Isn’t it?”

My cue. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Who brought this abomination into my home?” She pointed at a plate with a few specks of white Parmesan cheese and red marinara sauce. Even though the kitchen windows
were open wide, there were still the scents of garlic, basil, and tomato clinging to the air.

Tell her? Don’t tell her?
My mind raced with the options and lies and stories. Try to find the least painful choice. Everything was a gamble. Some days she’d beat; some days she’d take away necessities but not lay a hand on anyone.

I was still weighing the options when Sema piped up. “It’s just pasta.”

“It’s just pasta, you say? Nothing is just anything. This wasn’t on the week’s menu. This wasn’t purchased by our budget, was it? Who provided the money to purchase it? Who bought it and gave it out? Who? I want to know exactly who was involved, don’t I? This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed strange foods or smells around here, is it? Was this made in this kitchen? Was it? Made in this house with my supplies and my tools and my time? I don’t pay for you, or care for you, to make ‘just pasta,’ do I?” Her face flushed a matching tomato red and sweat dribbled down her nose, hanging for a second before dripping off. Her ire nauseated me and I threw up a little in my mouth, then swallowed it back.

I felt Bodie tremble.

Out of options
. I shuffled forward a step. “I made it.”