Free Once Was Lost by Sara Zarr Page A

“Cal Stewart,” she says. “New in town. Bought the store from the Penfolds three years ago.”
    Three years’ residency is “new in town” here, especially to people like Ida. She’s suspicious of everyone and always calls our house if her Sunday offering check isn’t deposited by Tuesday morning. “I don’t want my signature out there floating around where gosh-knows-who-all can see it, forge it, and take me for every penny.”
    “How’s your mother, sweetie?” Ida asks now.
    “Fine.”
    While Ida watches me, the rest of them look at their cards. “You just tell her that the Lord doesn’t give a person more than he knows they can bear.”
    Ida Larson knows? Then everyone must know.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    My cell phone, in my shorts pocket, rings. I pull it out. “It’s my dad,” I tell the ladies, and they all smile and nod, like of course it would be my dad because that’s how in touch we are with each other and isn’t it great how Pastor Charlie is young and modern? “Have a nice day.”
    I go down the steps, and hit the button on my phone that will send my dad to voice mail, then slide it open as I walk away, pretending to talk. Even though he didn’t explicitly say I couldn’t go anywhere, I pretty much implied that I’d be locked up safe at home. Not answering his call saves me a lie.
    Two blocks later I’m standing in front of the hardware store, watching Cal crouch in the window arranging a display of fans and garden hoses and potting soil.
    I let my hand rest on the door for a second, staring at the flyer of Jody taped to the glass. It’s the same picture they put on the TV this morning and now the whole country has seen her smiling face, full of braces.
    When I go in, the strand of bells Cal has hanging on the handle jingles. His voice comes from the window: “Be right with you.”
    There’s an end display of citronella candles and yellow jacket traps. I straighten them and wish I had a dust cloth or something. The store is a little sad right now, neglected. One thing you could say about the old owners is that they kept it clean.
    “Oh,” Cal says when he comes out and sees me. “The resident xeriscaper.”
    He wears a store apron with his name embroidered on the pocket, his wire-rim glasses resting on the top of his head.
    “Yeah, well.” I pick up a tube of cream that claims to be both a sunblock and a mosquito repellent. “Does this stuff work?”
    “I’ve never tried it, but I don’t see why it wouldn’t.”
    I put the tube back. “Um, you know that plastic sheeting I got on Saturday?”
    “Yes?” He’s half-looking at a clipboard.
    “I’m not sure exactly what I’m supposed to do with it.”
    “Cover up the lawn or weeds or whatever plants you want to kill.” He looks up and smiles briefly. “Not much to it.”
    “How long does it take?”
    “Depends. On the weather, on the types of plants. I’m sure you can find information online.”
    Online. Of course. Everything is online, only I’m not allowed online, but I’m too embarrassed to tell him that. “Thanks.”
    “No problem.”
    He wanders off with his clipboard. Still trying to work out a plan for the yard, I look at the rack of seed packets. The pictures of the flowers on the packets make it look so easy: dig hole, insert seed, water, and voilà—beautiful, colorful flowers.
    Two summers ago there was a heat wave almost like the one we’re having now, but my mom and dad planted our garden anyway, putting in the butterfly bushes and hollyhocks together. Dad laid the flagstone path. They bought yard furniture. It wasn’t like last summer, when the good days were few and far between. This was a months-long stretch of togetherness. They’d let me stay up late into the night so I could sit with them out there, watching the stars. My mom seemed so happy. Open. Even the way she wore her hair back then told you something, always off her face so you could see her eyes smiling out at you.
    I wish I understood