Free Crooked River: A Novel by Valerie Geary Page B

sad. “Maybe he didn’t want you girls to get your hopes up, and here I am flapping my gums. Forget I said anything.”
    I slumped against the counter and shoved my right hand into my pants pocket, wrapped my fist around the key I’d found last night in a small side pocket of Bear’s leather satchel.
    I was alone in the teepee, stuffing the satchel inside my duffel bag where no one would find it, promising myself that as soon as I had a chance, I’d get rid of the jacket like I’d originally planned. In my rush, the bag tipped on its side and a silver key fell out onto the ground. It had a narrow, rectangular head engraved with the word Toyota . I didn’t know anyone who drove that make of car. I’d turned it over in my hand, feeling the weight of it, the coldness against my palm, then I put the key in the pocket of my jeans to ask Bear about later. But between last night and this morning an opportunity had never come up.
    I took my hand out of my pocket, turned, and opened the cupboard above the sink. Right there in front, like someone wanted me to find it, was Mom’s favorite mug, the one she always used when she was here. It was round, almost as big as a soup bowl, ruby red with tiny white polka dots and a small chip on the handle. It had fit perfectly in her cupped hands. I started to reach for a plain, blue mug that wasn’t important to anybody, but then stopped and took hers down instead. It was heavier than I remembered and looked strange with my small, stubby fingers wrapped around it instead of her long, graceful ones. I poured myself hot water from the kettle on the stove, stirred in three heaping spoonfuls of hot cocoa, and sat down at the table. The key jabbed sharp into my thigh. Maybe I didn’t know Bear as well as I thought I did.
    I sank low in my chair and blew across the surface of my mother’s mug, curling the steam in wisps around my face.
    A fter breakfast, after we’d finished washing the dishes and were separating the extra blueberries into pint boxes, Zeb cleared his throat and said too loudly, “Well, Mother, I suppose now’d be a good time for me to take little sister out to see the new chicks.”
    Franny wiped her hands on a dish towel, then slowly untied her apron and hung it on its proper hook beside the stove, taking her time like she was trying to figure out the best way to answer. Finally, she said, “I suppose now’s as good a time as any.”
    “I thought Ollie could help me work the honey stand this morning,” I said and shrugged. “But I guess we can see the chicks first.”
    Zeb and Franny exchanged the kind of glance that said nothing and everything at once. Then Franny said, “Why don’t I help you get things set up at the stand and then when Ollie’s had her fill of those chirping yellow fluff balls, Zeb can bring her out to join us.”
    That’s how I knew Franny wanted to talk to me about something important, something she didn’t think Ollie was old enough to hear, because in the three years I’d been selling honey at the end of her driveway, Franny had never come out to help. “This old body just doesn’t work the way it used to,” she’d say, by way of explaining, and pat her swollen joints. “I’d barely get halfway and then you’d have to carry me and I know you’re not strong enough for that.” Then she’d laugh and shoo me away. But today was different. Today, Franny insisted.
    I brought up two full boxes of pint-size honey jars from the basement and loaded them onto the wagon with three flats of blueberries, a metal cash box, and a plastic folding chair for Franny. She came out the front door wearing large rubber boots and a wide-brimmed straw hat and took her time coming down the porch steps.
    “You sure you want to come, Franny? It’ll be boiling out there so close to the asphalt.” I offered my arm for support, but she waved me away.
    “It’s about time I see what you’ve been up to out there, don’t you think?” She reached the last