Not a Drop to Drink

trees.

Lynn quickly dumped her second bucket into the tank to chase that picture away. She stood motionless above the tank for so long that the ripples settled, and she regarded her own reflection in the water.

Lucy woke to find her new protector sitting in the other cot with her arms crossed defensively, her gaze unfocused. The little girl stretched luxuriously, reveling in the smell of her clean hair and the feel of the warm blankets on her back. The trapped warmth from her body lulled her back down into sleep, but not before her hands brushed against something unfamiliar. A stuffed red dog, worn from years of love, had been tucked under the blankets with her.

“What’s this?”

“Just something I got for you out of the attic,” Lynn said. “It’s no big deal.”

Lucy ran her fingers over the soft, red fur, the hard nubs of plastic that formed his little black nose and eyes. “Was he yours? What’s his name?”

“I just called him Dog.”

“Dog,” Lucy repeated, pinning back his floppy ears and releasing them to fall down into her face. “You’re not good at naming things.”

“I had a real dog once,” Lynn said. “He answered to ‘Dog’ just fine, and didn’t seem to mind it.”

Lucy tossed the stuffed animal into the air. “What happened to him?”

“That,” Lynn said, snapping her hand out neatly to snatch the dog before he landed, “is not a good story.”

Lucy stretched her thin arms out, fingers wiggling for her gift. “Can I call him Red Dog?”

“Call him what you want,” Lynn said, letting him fall to the little girl’s chest, where she grabbed him in a bear hug. “He’s yours now.”

Lucy snuggled back under the covers, taking the newly rechristened Red Dog with her. Two fingers pinched onto one ear and rubbed in an ever-slowing circle as she drifted back down into sleep.

“Can I ask you something?”

Lucy jerked awake. “Mmph?”

“Am I good-looking?”

The child nodded, her gold curls bobbing up and down on the pillow. “Verry purty,” she mumbled.

Minutes of silence filled the basement, broken only by the sound of Lucy’s even breathing. “Huh,” Lynn finally said to herself. “Who’d’ve guessed?”

Eleven

A killing frost had fallen, turning the morning dew into a deadly covering of ice that stilled the insect voices. The sharp morning air ripped into Lynn’s lungs as she zipped her coveralls up to her neck. Beside her, an unrecognizable Lucy trotted loyally along, an oversized hat pulled down to her eyebrows, a scarf wrapped up to her nostrils.

“What’re we doing today?” Her voice was muffled by the layers of fabric Lynn had covered her with before trusting her frail skin to the outdoors.

“Gotta get wood inside. You sit if your feet start hurting you.”

Lucy had proven less a hindrance and more a help as the days went by. Her endless energy and curiosity could be put to good use, Lynn had soon realized. Small jobs, like gathering little bits of kindling and checking the supply of sanitized water, had soon bored her, and Lynn began trusting her with more work. Her feet were still healing from cutting out the overgrown toenails, something that had been less of struggle than Lynn had anticipated.

She’d asked Stebbs to assist, expecting crying, pleading, and a general struggle from Lucy. Her request that he hold the child down while she did the cutting had been met with a raised eyebrow and the suggestion that they try a less violent route first. After his patient, carefully worded explanation to Lucy, she had submitted gracefully to his touch, wincing and burying her head in Lynn’s lap for the worst moments. There had been tears, but no wailing. The throb after the surgery Lynn had dulled with some aspirin, after struggling with the cap. It hadn’t been removed in years.

Lynn had debated allowing Lucy to help her haul wood in. One dropped log could send the child into a world of pain. But Lucy insisted that boredom was worse than a bloody toe, finally consenting to wearing three pairs of socks inside of an old pair of Lynn’s boots. She plodded along beside Lynn as they made their way to the pole barn, curious and comfortable.

“All right,” Lynn said as she shoved the rolling door open. “I’ve got a wagon in here you can drag around the yard, gather all the little sticks, things we can use for kindling if our coals go out downstairs.”

Lucy’s brows knitted and she stopped in her tracks. “That’s not a new job. You said you had a new job for me.”

“You get to use the wagon now.” The flash of inspiration had struck Lynn on her water-gathering chores the evening before when she’d spotted her old red wagon, rusting in the dark corner.

“That’s an old job, just with a new wagon. I wanna help you with the wood.”

“You are helping with the wood,” Lynn insisted as she tugged on the handle to dislodge the wagon from its ancient resting place. “Kindling is wood.”

Lucy muttered something under her breath, but it was lost inside the scarf covering her mouth. She took the handle of the wagon and trudged glumly out the door with the wagon wheels squeaking their protest. Lynn followed, warned Lucy to stay in the yard, then made her way to the wood cords on the east side of the house.

They would make it through the winter. The basement retained heat well, especially once she dropped the woolen blanket that covered the entrance to the pantry room. There wouldn’t be much excess firewood to rely on for the next fall, which made cutting in the summer a must. How she would manage to leave the house to cut was a question she didn’t have a good answer to. The pond could not be left unguarded. She’d probably have to trade labor with Stebbs again, and even though she didn’t like the idea of needing him, the feeling of shame that usually erupted at having to ask for help had subsided a bit.

Self-reliance had been Mother’s mantra. Nothing was more important than themselves and their belongings. Allowing Lucy into their home had gone against everything she’d learned, but leaving the little girl to die beside the stream went against something that was simply known and had never been taught. She’d shared the thought with Stebbs after they worked on Lucy’s feet. He told her it was her conscience, guiding her to the right decision.

Having a conscience was a new experience, and one Lynn was starting to question as she regarded the sullen child tossing twigs into the rusty red wagon. Lucy would have to go back. Eli and Neva had shelter now; a few days ago, Lucy had come running down to the pond, the armload of sticks threatening to take an eye out if she fell.

“Lynn—there’s a truck coming down the road!”

Such a nonsensical comment had brought Lynn to her feet, sidearm in hand. They’d rushed to the roof together, Lynn impatiently smacking the little girl’s backside when she’d balked twenty feet up. The sound of an engine had been noticeable on the cold morning air, and Lynn chided herself for not hearing it sooner. She’d been distracted by the looming handle of the water bucket that should be ebbing and flowing peacefully far beneath the surface of the pond, not mere inches from it.

The hum of the engine grew louder and Lynn saw that Lucy was right. There was a truck coming, Stebbs behind the wheel. As he passed, she saw that the bed held a chain saw and raw lumber. He waved happily, throwing his arms up in mock surrender when he saw Lynn’s gun. Lucy jumped up and down, waving back ecstatically.

“What’s he doin’?” Lucy asked.

“Looks like he’s going to build your mama a house.”

Lucy stood on her tiptoes to watch as Stebbs disappeared down the road. “He’s kinda like magic, isn’t he?”