The Crying Rocks Read online

  Vernon doesn’t answer. His mouth looks swollen on one side. He stands inside the closed front door staring at Aunt Mary Louise in a way that makes Joelle nervous.

  “Hey, Vernon, I was telling Joelle about the day we found her at that center in Badgerville, and I couldn’t remember. Wasn’t she named Sylvia but called Sissie when she was living out in Chicago?”

  A muscle moves in Vernon’s cheek.

  “Well, it was something like that,” Aunt Mary Louise says, turning back. “I think my memory’s going to pot along with everything else. Anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter what somebody calls you that throws you out a third-story window. Probably, they forgot to call you any name.”

  “Don’t ask me, I can’t remember anything,” Joelle says quickly. She’s seen Vernon’s eyes shift. He’s never liked Aunt Mary Louise telling these stories about her. Maybe it’s Aunt Mary Louise’s jokey approach, which can seem a little mean sometimes, or maybe he just doesn’t want Joelle hearing about her life back then.

  Whichever, Aunt Mary Louise is usually careful not to say too much when he’s around. This time she seems almost to be challenging him.

  Vernon’s gaze avoids Aunt Mary Louise, propped up like a sack of flour on the couch pillows, and fixes on an unlit lamp on a table behind her. There’s a long pause during which nobody moves. Or breathes, it seems. Joelle gets so nervous, she feels like screaming.

  Suddenly, Vernon turns and walks straight toward her. He looks furious, as if he’s about to grab her. Joelle lurches away and starts to duck, but he brushes past and goes on into the kitchen. He opens the fridge, takes out a beer, slams the fridge door shut, and disappears out the back. Joelle’s face feels sweaty. She goes to sit by Aunt Mary Louise, nestles in close to her on the couch.

  “Listen, don’t tell those stories about me when he’s around. It makes him mad,” she whispers. “I thought for a minute . . .”

  Aunt Mary Louise purses her lips. “He would never hurt you,” she says. “Never.”

  “Well, don’t tell them to him anyway.”

  Through the window, they watch Vernon stalk across the muddy yard. There’s still an hour until suppertime. He’s probably going to work on his shed. He has a plan to raise chicks from the egg and sell them to a local farmer to grow into chickens for the packaging plant. He knows someone who’s doing that and making good money.

  “And don’t tell them to me, either,” Joelle says to Aunt Mary Louise, loud and clear, for the first time ever. She turns to face her. “I don’t want to hear them anymore. Sissie or Sylvia, I don’t need to know.”

  Aunt Mary Louise turns her head away, as if she’s insulted.

  “See, it’s all a big fairy tale, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe it’s true and maybe it isn’t. How do I know?”

  “Some fairy tale; it makes me sick,” Aunt Mary Louise says to the wall. “An innocent child. A little innocent girl that’s abandoned by the world, left to sleep in a box. . . .” Before she can get any further, Joelle leans over and takes one of her hands. She holds it tight between her own.

  “Listen, I don’t care,” she says quietly. “It’s not a problem for me. I know it must seem like I could never forget, but I have. You shouldn’t worry anymore. I can’t even remember getting thrown.”

  5

  CARLOS IS SITTING ON THE back steps staring bleakly at the school parking lot when Joelle comes out the door to meet him the next afternoon. It occurs to her that he thought she wouldn’t come.

  “Ciao!” she sings out.

  He turns around quickly. “What is ‘chow’?” he asks. He’s always so serious about everything.

  “It’s Italian for ‘hi.’ ”

  “Italian! What happened to Spanish?”

  “It’s boring to speak the same language all the time. We should broaden our minds. Sawahdee ka.”

  “Sa—what?”

  “It’s Thai, the language of Thailand, for ‘hello.’ But if you’re a guy, you say sawahdee krap.”

  “Ha-ha,” says Carlos.

  “You do! It’s not what it sounds like. In Thailand the end of some words depends on whether the person speaking is a man or a woman. Women say ka; men say krap. I was wondering last night if that’s somehow sexual discrimination. I couldn’t decide. What do you think?”

  Carlos has been silenced. He stares at her as if she’s some bewildering form of alien intelligence, then gets up and starts walking away. Joelle follows.

  “And then there’s nee-how. That’s ‘hi’ in Chinese,” she can’t stop herself from adding.

  They make their way across the parking lot toward a side street, being careful to avoid the front of the school, where Michiko and company lie in wait.

  “Where did you learn all that?” Carlos asks as they reach the street.

  “I looked it up. We had this assignment to research vanilla, and it sort of took me over to the other side of the world. Vanilla grows in Central America but also in parts of Indonesia, I found out. After that, I don’t know, I couldn’t stop. I started going up into Thailand and China.”

  Glancing over, Joelle sees that Carlos appears really worried now, as if he might not know where Indonesia even is, not to mention Thailand. Okay, enough is enough.

  “So where are we going?” she asks him, to put him in charge again. When you look too smart, ask a question. Every girl knows this.

  “Up Buck Pond Road a way, then into the woods by the old quarry,” he answers in a relieved voice. “There’s a hiking trail there that leads along the side of the swamp. We branch off on another trail after a couple of miles and start going uphill. About a mile after that, well, you’ll see. The view is pretty amazing.”

  “This is the council place?”

  Carlos nods. “The Narragansetts lived here for hundreds of years, you know. They had some spectacular places.”

  They walk without talking. Traffic passes them continually on the road, which has no sidewalk beyond the town limits. They keep to the right, going single file. The day is cool but bright, the kind of fall day when city people drive out to see the leaves. A smell of wood smoke hangs in the air. From somewhere, out of sight, comes the high whine of a power saw. Someone is clearing land, getting ready to build a new house, maybe. There’s been a lot of construction in the area lately. Everywhere you look, land is up for sale, and it’s selling. New families are moving in, commuters with city jobs. Providence and its business-park suburbs are just a twenty-five-minute drive up the highway.

  “Here’s the trail,” Carlos says suddenly. “And look who’s here.”

  Parked in a sandy turnout across the road is a red Volkswagen Bug, filled to the roof inside with newspapers, clothes, plastic bags of unidentifiable junk.

  “Queenie,” Joelle says. “What’s she up to?”

  “She goes walking, I guess. I’ve seen her car over there a few times. I’ve never run into her, though. She must take other paths.”

  “My aunt says she’s a descendant of an early tribe around here.”

  “I heard that. If it’s true, I guess she’d know her way around. Come on.”

  They turn off the road, and almost immediately, the atmosphere changes. Even before they get to the top of the first rise, Joelle feels the long arms of the forest close around her, shutting out the road noises. She follows Carlos along the trail, which is thick with fallen leaves in places but in others is clear and wide, a well-beaten track.

  “Is this an Indian trail?” she asks.

  “No. It’s part of the North–South Trail that goes up to Massachusetts. Hikers use it. See those blue marks on the trees?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I’ve heard about this. I’ve never done much hiking.”

  “Before my brother died, my father used to bring us here,” Carlos says, turning around to speak to her. “That’s how I got to know it. Now I come whenever I can.”

  “Your brother died?”

  Carlos shrugs. “He was a lot older than me.” He turns and walks on. “An
yway, it’s a great feeling to be out here by yourself,” he says over his shoulder.

  Joelle nods. She can see he doesn’t want to go into what happened to his brother, which is a relief, actually. If he doesn’t tell about himself, then he won’t expect her to do the same. The trouble with getting to know people is that they start being nosy. They think they have a right to ask you whatever they want.

  “It’s so quiet here,” she says, to let Carlos know it’s okay if they don’t talk.

  It isn’t really quiet, though, once you start listening. Leaves rustle, tree limbs creak, birds cry out, small feet scurry through the underbrush.

  “Am I hearing water?” Joelle asks suddenly, cocking her head.

  “Cowaset Brook,” Carlos answers. “It’s named after an Indian sachem.”

  “A what?”

  “Sachem. A chief.”

  A minute later they come upon a rocky stream rumbling noisily through the woods. The water is bright and clear, joyful-looking as it tumbles along over rocks, against fallen branches. Joelle wishes she could stop for a minute to dip in a hand or a toe, but even as she slows down, Carlos warns her, “There isn’t time. We have to keep moving if we want to be back by dark.”

  “Why? Are wild animals out here?” She’s heard an uneasy tone in his voice.

  Carlos shifts his gaze off to the left and stares for several seconds into the forest there. “Nothing like that,” he says. “It’s easy to lose your way in the woods after the sun sets. Also, we wouldn’t be safe going back on the main road. Drivers can’t see you in the dark.”

  Joelle nods, thinking what a careful person he is. She’s already noticed that he’s wearing a first-aid kit on his belt. There’s a water bottle, too.

  “Were you in the Boy Scouts or something?” she asks, kidding him a little.

  “No,” he flashes back, “were you?” He turns around and takes a comical gawk at Joelle’s Alpine five feet nine inches.

  It’s the first joke he’s ever made off her, and they both laugh. “No offense,” Carlos says, looking worried.

  “No way,” Joelle assures him. “That makes us equal.”

  They walk on with a good feeling between them. The sun plays hide-and-seek through the trees, ducking out of sight, then blazing up suddenly in their faces as they come over a rise or into a clearing. Soon the trail splits, and they fork off to the left on a narrow path, hard to see.

  “Almost there,” Carlos says.

  The ground rises steadily now, and for ten minutes they push ahead without speaking. Joelle entertains herself by imagining she is an Indian girl walking lightly along the path. Like a shadow, she passes, fitting each step exactly into the footstep of the person in front of her, a way of walking her Indian mother taught her to deceive enemy trackers. (There’s no telling where she really picked this up. On TV, maybe?) She doesn’t make a sound. Even the animals and birds don’t hear her coming. Suddenly, up ahead, the cloddish stamp of intruders’ feet crashing through underbrush rings out! White men! In her sacred land! The Indian girl must run and warn her village. Like an antelope, she springs away, back toward the rushing brook. She must not be seen. She must not cry out. She must run and run and . . .

  “What are you doing?”

  Carlos has turned around and is staring at her.

  “Oh!” Joelle, caught in the act of springing like an antelope in place, comes to earth with a thud and grins sheepishly. “I had this sudden vision.”

  “Of jumping?”

  “Forget it. Are we getting there?”

  They are. Around the next bend the forest falls away, and with no warning, Joelle finds herself on the edge of a cliff—a stupendously high cliff with views that shoot off to distant horizons. Below, a wide, multicolored carpet of forest spreads across the valley floor. The lowering sun shines on it, firing up bright yellows, oranges, and reds. Islands of green linger in places.

  Beautiful but . . . glancing down, Joelle realizes she’s within inches of the sheer rock drop-off. For a moment she’s terrified, too paralyzed to breathe. It seems as if the abyss below is beckoning, trying to draw her down. Some insistent hand has taken hold of her and is pulling her forward. With effort, she resists and drags herself away.

  “I’ve never liked edges. I always think I’m going to fall,” she tells Carlos apologetically.

  He isn’t intimidated. He sticks his hands in his jeans pockets and stands proudly at the brink.

  “A hawk,” he says, pointing to a winged form soaring regally in front of them.

  Joelle nods. Away from the edge she feels safe, and the beauty is overwhelming. She never knew this was here. All this time, living down in town, she never knew. It’s as if she’s walked through a door into another world.

  “Where is Marshfield?” she asks.

  “You can’t see it from here. We’re looking west. You can imagine the grand council meetings the Narragansetts probably had up here. And at night, around a fire, they held ceremonies and big celebrations.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Mask dances and rites of passage. The Sioux had a whole system of beliefs about the world that have been passed down and studied, but nobody knows very much about what the Narragansetts believed. They were killed off too fast.”

  “I’d like to come here at night sometime,” Joelle says wistfully. “Wouldn’t it be great to camp here, under the stars?”

  Carlos nods. They look out at the horizon again and listen to the sounds a forest makes when it’s alone, undisturbed, living free of civilization. Distant caws, windy sighs, a sudden crash from the underbrush. But also, beneath these, Joelle hears a more elemental noise: a low, continuous moan or howl that seems to come from all compass points at once, out of the depths of the valley before her. She thinks: Is it the pure voice of the land speaking? She looks at Carlos and smiles.

  “This isn’t the only place like this,” he says. “There are a lot of lookouts in this area.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “There are boulders that still have Indian markings on them and caves they used during hunting trips. The Narragansetts built their villages in swamps. I could show you where. Swamps protected them from their enemies. Only they knew the paths to get in.”

  Joelle nods, happily. This is a kind of history she can deal with. “Where is Connecticut?” she asks.

  “You’re looking at it.” Carlos points toward a forested rise. “The state line’s not very far away. In fact, Massachusetts is only about thirty miles north of here. We could probably see that, too, on a really clear day.”

  “Were there Indians up there, too?”

  “Other tribes, not so powerful as the Narragansetts. They traded with them. A lot of the roads we drive on are old Narragansett trails. The Native Americans knew the best routes, where to cut through valleys and ford rivers. The first white settlers had it easy. They just followed the trails that had been here for hundreds of years. Then they moved in, built towns, and took over.”

  “Not without a fight,” Joelle says. “The Indians fought back, right?”

  “Not at first,” Carlos says. “They welcomed the settlers. The Narragansetts were generous. They thought the land was for everybody, that it was meant to be shared.”

  “Well, that was a mistake.”

  Carlos nods sadly. “They were the first tribe around here to come in contact with whites. They didn’t have any idea what they were up against. They didn’t know that a whole other civilization, ten times more powerful than they were, was getting ready to move in on them from across the ocean.”

  “If they’d known, would it have made a difference? Could they have worked something out?”

  Carlos considers this question and shakes his head.

  “The English didn’t want any deals. They were very religious and thought God meant them to take over. The Indians would have lost everything no matter what, just the way they did, not only here, but all across America.”

  “The way
you did, you mean,” Joelle points out. “Your people.”

  Carlos pauses again. “Except I’m not only Native American. I’m part English, too, like the people who killed them. And part Spanish, like the conquistadores who invaded Mexico.”

  “Spanish! Is that where your name comes from?”

  “It’s my dad’s middle name. My other grandmother was supposedly from Colombia. I’m also part, I don’t even know, Polish or something. My mother’s family came from Europe. Anyway, I don’t feel as if I lost my land. It’s much more complicated than that. How about you?”

  “Me?” says Joelle. “I’m not Native American.”

  Carlos looks at her. “You might be. How do you know?”

  “If I were, I’d feel it, don’t worry.”

  “I don’t exactly feel Spanish, you know.”

  “Look, I’d just know!” Joelle snaps, sending him a warning flash: She doesn’t want to go on with this. No one has the right to tell her what she might or might not be. She’s deciding for herself, so lay off.

  Carlos gets the message.

  “I guess you’re not, then,” he agrees. “Too bad.”

  “And exactly why is it too bad?”

  “Because then we’d kind of be related.”

  This is such an unexpectedly nice thing to say that Joelle’s mind goes blank and she can think of nothing to answer back. She’s never thought of being connected to someone that way, by a whole people rather than by what she doesn’t have—brothers, sisters, cousins.

  They stare out across the land again. Magnificent. Glorious. Trees flare up like live coals in the sun, burn brightly for a second or two, then darken. Farther on, other trees catch fire. Gauzy clouds overhead are causing this effect as they drift in front of the sun.

  The sun! They both realize it at once. It’s sunk quite low in the sky. Time to go. Immediately!

  They take turns swigging from the water bottle, then start off on the narrow path back through the woods.

  “Keep close,” Carlos says. “I’m going to move.”

  They walk fast and are soon back at the fork that leads into the wide hiking trail. Twenty minutes later they are alongside the rushing brook again. Here, glancing worriedly at the sky, Carlos picks up the pace.