Margaret Harper had finished preparing the room for her granddaughter back in the middle of May. She had whitewashed the ceiling, washed every curtain, and spread the daisy-patterned quilt Emily had adored when she was four. Emily was seven now. A photograph hung beneath a refrigerator magnet: a little girl in a yellow jacket, standing beside some distant ocean and squinting into the hard wind.
Her son called on Sunday evening. The moment she heard, “Mom, please don’t be upset,” Margaret understood everything.
“We won’t make it this year. Emily’s going to summer camp. We paid for it back in the winter, and there’s no refund. And my shifts have been rearranged, so…”
“I understand, Daniel,” she answered calmly. “Then it will be next summer.”
The ice cream Margaret had bought specially at the little market the day before was handed to the neighbor boys that same evening. Her husband, Harold, asked no questions. He simply spent the rest of the day in the shed tinkering with a pump that had been working perfectly well without any repairs.
On Thursday, close to ten in the morning, an engine roared outside the gate. A moment later, someone began pounding on it with an open palm as if determined to tear it from its hinges.
“Margaret! Margaret, open up! We’re here!”
Margaret had been tying up tomato plants. She straightened, and a familiar stab shot through her lower back. The only thing that usually helped was the ointment from the village pharmacy, where she worked every other day behind the counter.
Her cousin Denise stood by the fence, having driven in from Dayton. She was broad-shouldered, dressed in a bright floral sundress, her newly curled hair shining in the sun. Two enormous plaid bags rested at her feet. Behind her, five children stood bunched together like chicks huddling beneath a leaking roof.
“Denise? Why didn’t you call first?”
“Why would I call? You don’t live three states away,” Denise laughed, already stepping into the yard and dropping the bags onto the grass. “I brought the grandchildren! All of them, from both girls. Let the city kids eat some fruit for free. They sit in those apartments looking pale as sour cream.”
Harold came out onto the porch wearing a work vest and holding a screwdriver. He had spent forty years as a mechanic at the local canning factory. After retiring, he still repaired water heaters and pumps for people around town; some paid him in cash, others with a jar of honey or a basket of eggs. He stopped on the steps and silently counted the children.
“How many are there?”
“Five, Harold, five! That’s Connor, the oldest—he’s twelve. The twins, Tyler and Mason, are nine. Lily is six. And little Chloe turned four in February.”
“Denise,” Margaret finally managed, “do you hear yourself? The entire summer? We have the garden. I work at the pharmacy every other day, and Harold is always running off to fix something. You know perfectly well what our pensions are.”
“Oh, don’t start,” Denise said, waving her hand. “What does it take to feed them? It’s summer. Do you have potatoes from last year in the cellar? You do. Are the cucumbers ready? They are. Berries grow by themselves. The earth feeds them. Surely you aren’t going to begrudge your own family a plate of stew.”
“Are you staying with them?”
“I can’t.” Denise sounded almost offended. “I’ve got a health retreat booked near Asheville, and I already paid. My back needs treatment. After that, I’m scheduled to work the coat check at the community theater. Claire is working double shifts at the bakery, and her sister has gone to Canada for seasonal work. Where am I supposed to put the children?”
The oldest boy, Connor, had remained beside the bags, staring at the ground. He was thin and long-limbed, wearing a gray T-shirt faded almost white. Unlike the others, he had not rushed off to explore the yard. He held his youngest sister’s hand and kept quiet.
That evening Denise left on the intercity bus. Before departing, she ate a bowl of beef stew, drank two mugs of milk Margaret had borrowed from a neighbor, filled one of her bags with cucumbers and dill, and then cheerfully called from the bus window:
“I’ll pick them up in September! Make sure they’re all nice and round!”
That night, only one bare bulb lit the kitchen. Somewhere beyond the wall, a child shifted on a folding cot, and the old springs complained softly.
“What are we going to do?” Margaret sat with both hands flat on the oilcloth. “Should I call the police?”
“Who would you report? The children?” Harold poured tea into two chipped mugs. “What have they done? They were brought here like sacks of flour and abandoned.”
“They’re hungry, Harold. I cooked an entire stockpot of pasta with meat sauce today. Four quarts. They swallowed every bit and nearly scraped the bottom clean with their spoons.”
He said nothing for a long time. His eyes remained on the dark window, where the first green apples could already be seen between the branches of the old tree. His grandfather had built this house many decades earlier.