tables already ringed with water spots and a sofa scoured by cat claws. Such damage as he inflicted thereafter would scarcely show. A sweating beer bottle sat on the scarred maple dining-room table next to the typewriter, its moisture pooling on the unwaxed surface. Neither man noticed or cared.
"You reckon we ought to send this to Nashville?" asked Taw, indicating the still-blank sheet of paper.
"I don't know," said Tavy softly. "You got any other ideas?"
"What if we send a letter to our senator, and one to our U.S. Senator, and then one to North Carolina's senators."
"Saying what?"
"Hell, saying this river kills people and we want you to put a stop to the pollution. Clean the damn thing up. That's what we pay taxes for, isn't it?"
"I bet our tax money is a drop in the bucket compared to what that factory kicks in. They probably keep a pack of lawyers at their beck and call, too. Whatcha call it? Lobbyists."
Taw sighed in exasperation. "You can't lobby for permission to kill people," he declared. "Those people in the government mean well. They want to look out for the honest citizens. It's just that they're so far away and busy that every now and again they need the wrongs pointed out to them, so they can right them. So we'll call the situation to everyone's attention, and ask them to pass a law and make the polluters 127
quit." He didn't look like much of a match for the lobbyists, an overweight, elderly man in a Ban-Lon shirt and paint-stained work pants. But behind the steel-rimmed spectacles his eyes flamed with indignation.
"Well, I reckon we can try," said Tavy in tones of polite disinterest.
"We have to do more than try," Taw insisted. "We have to put a stop to this damned poisoned river. There's kids living all along it, Tavy. I say we go to the library in Jonesborough and see what we can find out about the whole business. Or maybe we could get the senator to send us some information."
Tavy nodded. "Just don't tell him I'm dying."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause why should he bother with somebody who won't be around next year to vote for him?"
Maggie lay in bed looking up at her hand. What did it feel like to be mad? How would it change one's perceptions? In drama class Mrs. Purdy had said that real actors thought themselves into the roles they played. She said that you could not act a thing convincingly unless you could feel what it was like within yourself. Old Purdy hadn't meant anything personal by it; she probably said it to all her drama classes, but this time everyone turned and stared at Maggie just the same. She must be able to feel her part, their eyes said. Hasn't her father been killed by someone she loved? Just like Ophelia.
Maggie had felt her face grow red, and she 128
looked away from her classmates' stares. She would not let them see any emotion in her. Let them see her play Ophelia and make what they could of that. She would not respond to their coy invitations to talk about it—"not keep things bottled up inside." She would confide in none of her new acquaintances, nor in the teachers who offered consolation; their solicitude seemed to her more morbid curiosity than genuine concern.
What did it feel like to be mad? It was already dark outside, but play practice did not begin for another hour. Perhaps she could find out by then. Maggie stretched out her fingers against the background of the cracked plaster ceiling, willing it to turn into a starfish. Crazy people saw things that weren't there, didn't they? The hand remained a hand: Her fingers were stubby; the nails ragged and bitten. She held up a strand of dark hair, curling it slowly around her fingers. It is a snake, she thought. It will move on its own, and its forked tongue will dart out at me, she thought. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the snake, willing the wiry coil of hair to turn into rough, dry snake-skin, telling herself that she could feel it pulsing between her fingers, but despite her efforts, she could not coax her
"You reckon we ought to send this to Nashville?" asked Taw, indicating the still-blank sheet of paper.
"I don't know," said Tavy softly. "You got any other ideas?"
"What if we send a letter to our senator, and one to our U.S. Senator, and then one to North Carolina's senators."
"Saying what?"
"Hell, saying this river kills people and we want you to put a stop to the pollution. Clean the damn thing up. That's what we pay taxes for, isn't it?"
"I bet our tax money is a drop in the bucket compared to what that factory kicks in. They probably keep a pack of lawyers at their beck and call, too. Whatcha call it? Lobbyists."
Taw sighed in exasperation. "You can't lobby for permission to kill people," he declared. "Those people in the government mean well. They want to look out for the honest citizens. It's just that they're so far away and busy that every now and again they need the wrongs pointed out to them, so they can right them. So we'll call the situation to everyone's attention, and ask them to pass a law and make the polluters 127
quit." He didn't look like much of a match for the lobbyists, an overweight, elderly man in a Ban-Lon shirt and paint-stained work pants. But behind the steel-rimmed spectacles his eyes flamed with indignation.
"Well, I reckon we can try," said Tavy in tones of polite disinterest.
"We have to do more than try," Taw insisted. "We have to put a stop to this damned poisoned river. There's kids living all along it, Tavy. I say we go to the library in Jonesborough and see what we can find out about the whole business. Or maybe we could get the senator to send us some information."
Tavy nodded. "Just don't tell him I'm dying."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause why should he bother with somebody who won't be around next year to vote for him?"
Maggie lay in bed looking up at her hand. What did it feel like to be mad? How would it change one's perceptions? In drama class Mrs. Purdy had said that real actors thought themselves into the roles they played. She said that you could not act a thing convincingly unless you could feel what it was like within yourself. Old Purdy hadn't meant anything personal by it; she probably said it to all her drama classes, but this time everyone turned and stared at Maggie just the same. She must be able to feel her part, their eyes said. Hasn't her father been killed by someone she loved? Just like Ophelia.
Maggie had felt her face grow red, and she 128
looked away from her classmates' stares. She would not let them see any emotion in her. Let them see her play Ophelia and make what they could of that. She would not respond to their coy invitations to talk about it—"not keep things bottled up inside." She would confide in none of her new acquaintances, nor in the teachers who offered consolation; their solicitude seemed to her more morbid curiosity than genuine concern.
What did it feel like to be mad? It was already dark outside, but play practice did not begin for another hour. Perhaps she could find out by then. Maggie stretched out her fingers against the background of the cracked plaster ceiling, willing it to turn into a starfish. Crazy people saw things that weren't there, didn't they? The hand remained a hand: Her fingers were stubby; the nails ragged and bitten. She held up a strand of dark hair, curling it slowly around her fingers. It is a snake, she thought. It will move on its own, and its forked tongue will dart out at me, she thought. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the snake, willing the wiry coil of hair to turn into rough, dry snake-skin, telling herself that she could feel it pulsing between her fingers, but despite her efforts, she could not coax her
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