CHAPTER 1

Early June 1954

I shoved The Catcher in the Rye between the mattress and boxspring when I heard Mother yell up the stairs, although I probablyneedn't have. When I asked Mother for money to buy the book,she made it clear that it wasn't one Mr. Pop would condone. Butshe gave me the money anyway.

I figured a book tucked below the mattress, hidden by a stackof quilts and under a layer of ruffles, was one Mr. Pop would notfind. And, therefore, could not disapprove of my reading.

"Mercy," Mother called again more insistently, this time fromthe landing, halfway up our staircase.

I cracked the door open—enough to poke my head out andlet the cat in—never letting go of the glass knob. "Be right down."

"Please hurry. You need to get something in you. Your fatherwants you to go get Ansley and Mick."

I couldn't hide my smile.

My mother smiled back, shook her head, and waved her dishragin the air. I watched her walk back down the stairs. Watchedher graceful hand, still lovely after all that hard work, as it glidedalong the polished oak banister.

I closed the door and leaned for a moment against its darkpanels. My smile spread wider across my face. Plenty of fifteen-year-oldswould've balked at the idea of a drive into town, to whereAnsley and Mick and all the Maliseet lived in the Flats, built overtrash in our town dump. But not me. I'd go anywhere, do anythingto be with Mick.

Though, of course, Mr. Pop didn't know this. He couldn't knowthis.

To him, sending me—"You're as good as any son, Mercy"—wassimply prudent. I was a good driver, able to navigate the longroad into town in any weather. And I was fearless. Unafraid ofpounding on the plywood doors of the Flats, unafraid of pushingthem open, stepping over and between bodies that huddledtogether or crisscrossed on the cold floors. Unafraid of clappingmy hands, of announcing myself, even of shaking Ansley, Francis,Newell, and Clarence awake if I had to.

I suppose I should've been afraid, should've been more awareof the dangers that a teenaged girl stepping into a shack full ofpassed-out men might have presented. But these men wantedwork, needed work. My presence was their manna. My knowledgeof that kept me safe. Well, that and knowing Mick made theserounds with me.

I slid my nightgown off my shoulders and grabbed my shirtand blue jeans from the back of my desk chair. My flannel sleeveslid across the top of my desk and Lickers leapt toward it. Shepinned the sleeve like she had a mouse's tail. Her claws dug intothe slick-stained wood and dragged back.

"Lickers! No!" I swept my arm across the desk. Lickers leaptwith a meow. No.

I ran my finger over the scratch and shook my head, tried notto cry as I thought back to what it took to get this. All last harvest,I'd worked for this desk. And even before with all the rock picking,clearing the fields of rock so the plows could ready the ground.Then I'd spent so many hours, days, weeks bent and sore pickingpotatoes out of the hard, dry earth. Filling the basket, emptying itinto the barrel, filling the basket, emptying it into the barrel. Onand on. The repetition might have made me lose my mind were itnot for our farmhands Bud Drake and Ellery Burt and their encouragingbanter.

But besides the long, hard hours, I got tired of being alone.Even though I was with a crew, no one else filled my barrels. Whenencouraging words failed to do the job, Bud's comments turnedharsher toward us: "You're too far behind." "Your barrel isn't fullenough." "Don't forget to put a ticket on your barrel when it's full."

You'd think we'd never done this before the way he nagged.Then again, Bud was only trying to please Mr. Pop. As was I.

Plus, I was focused on a goal: my new desk. So I put up withnagging and hard work and then the waiting—through the endof last October and first half of November—for the Sears truck todeliver this next piece of furniture to the farm. The one I'd longedfor more than even the dresser or the bed, which I'd worked for theprevious harvest.

The desk represented so much of what I'd wanted. A space tokeep my pens, my journals, my books, and my sketch pads. Andthe mirror above it—the place I could sit and not only feel likeme—the real me—but also see me: the young (was I also smart?Maybe even pretty?) woman looking back at me in that mirror.Instead of the sturdy farmhand Mr. Pop apparently saw.

So once again, I looked in that mirror and took a deep breath.Now wasn't the time to cry about a silly scratch. Not with Motherwaiting to fill me with biscuits and eggs and fresh milk. Not withMr. Pop waiting for me to bring back his workers. Not with Mickwaiting just for me.

I put arms through sleeves and legs through pants. Pulled myhair back into a ponytail and gave Lickers a final glare. She lickedher leg. She never noticed me.

* * *

"Morning, Mercy," Bud said, scraping his fork against theplate. "Truck's all gassed up and ready for you."

"Thanks. And morning to you both." I latched my hand aroundthe porch post and swung a bit as I balanced on the top step, likeI did every morning when I stopped to talk to Bud and Ellery,farmhands so trusted they were like family. Family that ate on theporch, that is.

I turned and raised an eyebrow at Ellery, wondering if hisstandard reply to Bud's greeting, usually some silly adage passeddown through five generations of solid Maine stock, would makesense this morning.

"When all is said and done, Miss Mercy, don't let the door hitya where the good Lord split ya."

Ellery shoved another biscuit into his mouth, and I laughed.This old chestnut even got a snicker out of Mr. Pop.

"So, Ellery, Mother put the last of last night's cheddar in thoseeggs this morning. What'd you think of it?"

Publicly, he'd eat anything. But privately, this man with thejoke had quite the sophisticated palate. Sure, he'd eat anything. Butknew what he liked.

"Wicked good," he said. "Butcha know, that creamy Kraftcheese melts smoother than the cheddar. Wonder if she might trythat sometime."

I shrugged. Ellery slurped his milk and continued: "Hey,watcha think of them wax cartons they're puttin' the milk in thesedays? I want the glass bottles back. This'll be a fad, you just wait."

"I'll mention it to her next time she places her order with Mr.Callahan," I said. "You should've been a chef, Ellery. Could've beenthe new chef at Nelson's. I hear they're hiring."

"Nah," said Ellery, "I'd've missed all this."

I followed his arm as he waved it out across the...