It Wasn't Always Like This by Joy Preble Page A

Kingsley Lloyd didn’t return to work. When Emma’s father went looking for him at the rooming house where he lived, his landlady announced that he had “sneaked out like a damn thief” in the middle of the night. His room was empty. He’d left no note, no forwarding address, no real trace that he’d ever been there at all.
    Emma thought, He wanted to escape, too.
    ONE YEAR TURNED to two. And then two turned to three.
    It was 1916 now. Three years since the Ryans and the O’Neills had drunk the tea brewed from the purple-f lowered plant that grew on the island, at the edge of the stream Emma had never seen with her own eyes. Three years since the f irst time Emma and Charlie had turned seventeen.
    They should have left. They should have run like Kingsley Lloyd.
    “Talk’ll die down,” Art O’Neill promised his family again and again and again. Of course he did. Everything they had was tied into the business, into this place.
    Early in January of 1916, a year after Kingsley Lloyd disappeared, Emma found herself hurrying down Main Street with Simon—headed to McClanahan’s because Emma had promised her brother some candy and Mr. McClanahan always stocked sweets.
    Simon still loved peppermints. He always would. She knew that now.
    “Be careful,” her mother warned.
    But what could happen in broad daylight? Emma couldn’t spend her life hiding, could she? The energy that burned inside her felt invulnerable, eternal. If what they thought was true, and it def initely hadn’t been proven otherwise, then who could hurt them? She knew what she saw in the mirror every day. No, fear wasn’t her problem. It was anger.
    Preacher Glen Walters stood on the wooden porch of the mercantile, his silver hair shining in the sun—his receding hair. She saw it now: even in the few years since he’d arrived, he’d aged far more than her parents. His skin was perpetually red, lined, weathered from the sun. And the dark circles under his icy blue eyes had deepened.
    He turned those eyes on Emma, then down to little Simon.
    “How old are you, son?” he asked as they climbed the stairs, stooping to pat Simon on the head.
    Emma tensed. It was a harmless tap. But she kept her eyes on that gnarled hand, the hand that balled into a f ist and shook with righteous lies at the revivals every Sunday.
    “He’s four,” Emma said through pursed lips. “He’s small for his age. His birthday is in March.” Which would make him almost f ive. Simon did not look almost f ive.
    Simon smiled his baby smile. “Four,” he repeated.
    Glen Walters ruff led Simon’s dark hair, f ine as silk, wavy like Emma’s, then curled his hand around her brother’s skull. Emma yanked Simon away.
    “Candy,” her brother said and started to cry.
    “I know ,” Glen Walters said softly, eyes tight on Emma’s. “You think I don’t, but I do. You can trust me, dear. Just tell me the truth.” His voice was gentle, but his eyes burned with something not gentle at all.
    “Let’s go,” Emma said to Simon. She dragged Simon back to the road. He was crying harder now.
    “You shouldn’t promise him something and then take it away,” Glen Walters called after her. “Come back, and I’ll buy the boy some candy.”
    “Leave us alone!” Emma shouted over Simon’s shrieking. She picked him up and broke into a run.
    “I can’t leave you alone, Emma,” Glen Walters said. “It’s too late for that.” His tone was polite, so different than his f iery fury at revival—but hearing him say her name like that was more terrifying than if he had shouted.
    •
    TWO DAYS LATER, Emma stood watching as Charlie tended to the hawks, tying jesses on their legs, f itting some with hoods, making sure everything was sturdy and proper. His hands moved steadily from task to task. When Charlie did something, he did it well.
    “I wish we were them,” she said. “Then we could f ly away from here, and nothing could catch us.”
    “Em,” Charlie began, then stopped. He